Sorry for Delay Madame

The last human words I heard. The housekeeping supervisor. It's 14:22 and I have an appointment at 3pm.
The room of this five star, high ceilinged suite looks like somebody lives in it. And I'd like them to hurry the hell up, because shortly nobody will live here. Just a call girl and a paying body will inhabit for a couple of hours. I hope it is like yesterday's two hour A-level that lasted a grand eighteen minutes. I really would like some sleep to shake off this jet lag before Mister Client number three tries to get something out of me. Am I jaded? Probably!

These agencies run it like a debt run: flights, hotel rooms to pay for. Anything after that is a bonus. So I get to see this country for the love of it. At least I have given my new camera a work out. Next time I'll try another agency.

14:30 and the Indian who is changing the sheets is spreading his nervous perspiration into my room. I feel a sense of de ja vu, and perhaps someone else can tell me, where is this from? I do recall telling one hotel to hire somebody else, because I am not really fit to breathe this air! Inside, I am swearing. 3pm. 7pm. 8pm. 10pm. I hope this ends soon, so I can open the balcony for some humidity.

Who am I anymore? What am I doing here? After seeing another me at the airport, I was imagining what my life would be like doing this on a larger scale, and less on the buck-bang buy me an Oroton. I am a Chanel girl, Gucci not Guess, Prada not Target. What the hell am I doing here? The only thing that I can identify with is sleeping in this hotel, and drinking the French tea I brought with me, from the Villeroy and Boch cups.