Ok, I will share the story as it was part of this journey. I hope readers, particularly my wife, will respect that nothing untoward happened and I remain morally unblemished. Really.
The Korston Tower Hotel is what Kafka had in mind when he wrote about an enormous hotel as a self contained universe. A sort of cross between Westfield, a conference centre and hell, with a Russian twist. As a result there are women of dubious morals and age floating around the malls and walkways.The management’s own advertising includes a strip bar and is keen on libido enhancing massages in its Casanova suite.
Muggins is in some pain in the back and very tight calves from three weeks of event. Jackie, the physio said if it happened get a massage. You can already see where this is going…
I went to reception to book a massage for my back, but the Spa was booked out. The lady said she could see if there was another possibility, made a call, jabbered in Russian and passed me a note for a seven pm appointment on the 13th floor.
Like a lamb to the slaughter I arrived on the 13th floor which it turns out is the Casanova suite, about which there has been some tittering among the rallyists. I met in quick succession the very big security guy, Madam and was offered the services of a choice of three prostitutes (I think) confusingly dressed as a cross between dental assistants and those girls who work in beauty on the ground floor of less good department stores. It became apparent that we were at cross purposes as to the type of back relief I was expecting.
A lot of flustered poor language exchanges, prostitutes dismissed and I am shown to a knocking room and introduced to Lydia, a charming Ukranian who locks the door behind me. Safe to report she was a good masseuse and finished off by walking on my back. I’ve never had a massage at such speed, she must be worn out by the end of the day.
Firsts falling left right and centre.
Another transit day with little to report. Here we crossed another pontoon bridge. Note the holidaying Russians swimming off to the sides. Pretty hot today.
Ford Escort clears the bridge. This car competed in the London to Sydney Rally as far as Yugoslavia where it crashed and was stripped for parts for the continuing cars. Counts as heritage these days.
Austen Richie stretches out on his wing seat.
Lenin provides leadership for us all, or directions to the Park Hotel.
She did tell me her name, but very rudely I’ve lost it.