Five Star Treatment

I'm in a hotel room, seventh floor up, looking at London from a Mayfair view. The carpet is thick, the corridor empty, the lifts uncalled for; it's a clear, blue sky day. The sun is slung low, it slides noiselessly across the sky, light blooms its shattered shards into the room, and looking at people is difficult. There are people in this room, I should have mentioned that, but I don't feel like talking about them, or to them, so I watch out the window. An armful of balloons sweep past the glass, trailing strings from their tails, crying out the absence of child. I watch them pass by, and then watch them again in the side of the gleaming building across the street. Below, the people are like ants, but less efficient. And no one is carrying a sugarcube. At least, not a giant sugarcube that I could see from up here. They may have sweeteners but I didn't ask. I like walking around hotels, pretending I stay there. They don't mind. They let you. As long as you don't steal anything. Like breakfast. Or a lift. Or two lifts. Besides, it makes the corridors feel better, less alone. If you wear a bathrobe nobody bothers you. Then everybody bothers you.