- I didn’t want to move when I woke up in Dante’s 7th circle of joint pain hell.
- I didn’t want to keep down breakfast
- I didn’t want to sit in the car for 3 1/2 hours to Calais
- I didn’t want to wake up regularly gasping as we braked & my back flew into spasm
- I objected to paying extortionate prices for toll roads that had appalling service stops
- I didn’t want to lay curved into a contorted angle on the train whilst it rocked me side to side & scattered my ribs
- I didn’t want to remain in the car for a further 2 hours to drive home (see waking up above)
I didn’t want to travel on a flare day. But I did. And now I’m home in our bed set up just for us having had a bath in my lovely accessible bathroom and a cuddle with the cats.
There’s no place like home.
What made me flare so badly today? It was a combination of being in the car the previous day for nigh on 6 hours, then staying in the worst hotel we’d ever booked.
Here is the brochure photo of the 1 bedroom apartment:
And another of the kitchenette
So, we were expecting basic, but clean and functional as a stopover. This was billed as a wheelchair accessible apartment which we double checked by email & relieved confirmation of – this roughly translates to “is on the ground floor & has no stairs”.
This is my photo:
Aside from smelling distinctly of the goat farm (?!), the wall paint was peeling, the cabinets were grubby & the kitchenette and general location reminded me of when Mr Geek & I shared a student flat. In its favour, the WiFi was excellent (so, yes, very much like our flat). We slept on the metal sofa bed which had a mattress approximately the depth of a Kardashian which promptly instigated my shoulder coming out as I turned, my pelvis twisting, & a nasty clunk in my neck that made my hand go tingly. I eventually fell asleep laying flat on my back with my legs in a full lotus to lock my hips in place.
My magic touch with hotels was missing on this one. By the next morning, I wanted my Ruby Slippers.