Wait! I think I’ve just recovered a repressed memory…
*wibbly wobbly effect*
Many years ago, driving south to civilisation with my girlfriend of the time – she was a lot younger than me; in her late teens (although she looked deceptively innocent). It was evening, and I decided to break the journey; coming off the motorway at the next exit.
On the road into town we spot a B&B, or similar, with vacancies. That’ll do. We’re greeted with what seems for some reason like hostility from the owner(?) as she looks up and down my magnificent bronzed countenance (recently back from the WSBA), and past my slightly nervous girlfriend to my flash car.
I’m asked how long I want, and naively assume she means days (“Just tonight, please”). We’re shown to our ‘room’ which looks like one of a couple of converted garages behind the house itself, and instructed to head back to the front-door to pay up.
The accommodation appears to have been built and furnished in the early Seventies and not touched since – orange and brown the dominant colours. There’s a massive mirror on the wall opposite the (saggy) double-bed, which is a bit odd, but...
I’m exhausted, so hand the GF a wedge of notes to settle-up. She comes back looking a bit confused. Apparently the owner had kept asking her if she was alright, and if there was anything she could do for her.
After making good use of the mirror we grab some sleep, and decide to head-off first thing. With a load of newly acquired flea-bites as it happens.
...And that’s how, in 2001, I came to have shagged a teenager in a dodgy hotel in Rotherham, Your Honour!