the centre of the universe

We’re in the hotel ordering breakfast.  Or trying to.  

John: “can I have the full English breakfast with toast please?”.  

Landlady rolls eyes; “No.”  John looks puzzled. 
“ You don’t order toast because toast comes with everything”.  

There are seven of us sitting round the table.  Some have clocked this exchange, others haven’t.  They get the same response.  Those who don’t want a big breakfast but just some toast are now trying to work out how to ask for it without actually saying the word.

Bromyard is a small town in the beautiful Herefordshire countryside.  The hotel building, which dates from the 16th C, is what might be described as quaint, quirky or eccentric.  Online reviews describe it as ‘like Fawlty Towers, but in a nice way .…’  

The same can be said of the staff.  

Customer in bar, near closing time; “could I have 6 pints of bitter please?”. 
Landlord; “No.  I’ve just washed the pint glasses.  You’ll have to have 12 halves.”

The rooms show their age.  The bedroom floor undulates and in one part of the room I brush the ceiling when I stand up straight.  This is not a posture that I can adopt in the shower.  It’s a bath-shower and when I get in my head hits the ceiling and I have to bend down.  Which I would need to do anyway, because the shower hose is too short.  

There’s a medieval banqueting hall attached to the hotel.  We look round with an eye to future gigs.  It’s a fabulous building - like something from a film set, but the real thing.  John leaves a business card.  You never know.

We’d come back to Bromyard again.  We’d stay in the hotel again.  Gig or no gig.