The Liverpool
Bridal Suite 90s
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
My husband and
I went to Liverpool for my mother’s funeral.
I had got a special “Liverpudlian” rate
in a Victorian converted mansion hotel in Sefton
Park and ended up with the over-the-top bridal
suite. The ceiling was royal blue with gold
twinkling stars and naked white Grecian tacky
statues adorning the bathroom.
The deal was
dinner, bed and breakfast. However, the dinner
was poor quality with everything piled high on
one plate looking and tasting very unappetising.
The dining room was full of international
interpreters because across, in the park an
emergency camp had been set up for asylum seekers.
We retired to bed after consuming a good bottle
of red wine.
To sleep.
Perchance to dream? Impossible, the double bed
was lumpy and we both rolled into the middle of
the mattress and had a dreadful sleepiness night.
The next
morning, exhausted, for some reason, my magical
husband Martin stood up on the bed and decided to
jump up and down. Whatever possessed him? There
was a resounding crack and the whole bed and
mattress tipped down to the base bedhead
releasing clouds of dusty confetti. On
examination two or three of the cheap Ikea-esque
wooden struts had broken.
Sheepishly we
went down to breakfast wondering how the manager
was going to view our nocturnal escapades. Well
it was the bridal suite after all.
To our
amazement, he thanked us profusely for letting
him know in time so that the bed could be
repaired before an important wedding that very
weekend.
There would be
no charge for anything. Thank God we just stayed
the one night. Liverpool humour at its best.
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