Toast or kippers

'Five minutes from the sea' the sign says. It doesn't specify the speed required.

 

The room is small, cold, damp and bare, walls closely enclosing, like a womby cavern.

 

"You're not on the land are you?" the landlady asks.

 

"No," I say, providing the answer she clearly wants without actually understanding the question. "I'm here for the conference."

 

"Oh, one of those are yer. I hope you've brought your own towels. Breakfast is at seven. Your key. The front door is locked at eleven and bolted at twelve. We don't tolerate unauthorised guests or noise."

 

The room has a name rather than a number, El Alamein. The room oppose it Hastings, the shared toilet/shower is labelled Waterloo, the first hint at humour I have encountered.

 

"You toast or kippers dear?" she calls up the stairs.

 

"Put me down as toast," I reply.