Let's go to San Francisco...

The Green Tortoise

Ponky, unprofessional and unkempt, with a hippy ethos that has worn as
threadbare as it's carpet.

For those of us who travel with our flexible friends, the folk manning
the check-in desk bark at us that they don't do plastic (but they can
stretch to accepting your sixteen digits as security in case you blow
'em out). A tad too toxic in these back to the planet days, eh?

Little did we know that my sis and I would be taking notes. Little did
sis know she'd be on the phone, tout de suite, booking us in somewhere
clean. Had they known, would there have been a bin full to brimming in
our room with the added luxury of a sink of pubic hairs? Who didn't
clean the room before we arrived then? A magic key which fitted every
door on our floor made me muse over whether our room could be an
Aladdin's Cave to anyone else. Pointing this out to the man at
reception with a face like a sair erse induced the taking of the Lord's
name in vain, as he seethed at my fussiness. In a move which could only
be described as sleight of hand, he swapped the key he'd given me to
next door's room for the right one, adding a dash more rudeness in case
I hadn't understood the first time. Hippies? You can have 'em. Value
for money? You can keep that and all. I'm dunruffinit!