You see, there is something about hotels that appeal to me. It isn’t the plush carpet or the view or the fact that there are people who do your beds and do your laundry and everything. And nevermind the TV with as few channels as possible, with all the good stuff on pay-per-view (it took me 3 years to know it wasn’t paper-view). It isn’t about the built-in closet or the shoe polishers or EVEN the fluffy beds.
It was all about the bathroom. Yes, the lovely marble bathrooms, with the generous sink (good for later purposes when I became older), amazingly enormous titanic mammoth of a mirror, and a luxurious bathtub. And oh my God… the Grohe taps and knobs and faucets. And the wonderfully multifunctional shower, with 873,715 different modes that make the water leave it with grace, and artistically pour over your body, effectively doing what that mode is supposed to do.
Of course, though, all these bathgasms would wait till later. I spent my younger years turning the knob on “massage”, which effectively pours out the water in short bursts, which, when viewed from afar, looked like machine gun bullets.
Which is precisely what I needed.
I would firstly align all bottles within 900 kilometers into lovely single files to form a grid of victims. I would align them on the generous sink and floor, and, for extra challenge, on hangers and other floating devices.
I would then play war. Yes, it was an epic water battle between me – with my powerful shower machine gun – and the hopelessly hapless bottles with no self defence mechanism (later on though I would get shampoo in my eyes and weep for days). So after the stage is set, I let loose of the water and within minutes I have the whole Bottle Population annihalated. It is genocide I tell you. I scream with glee as I watch bottle after bottle topple over, often spilling their contents on the miraculously unslippery floor (when dry of course). I would then rearrange them and repeat as needed, until my whole family is dying to pee or have suspected I grew up enough to take longer showers. I wouldn’t be doing that for years to come.
So anyway, after my bathgasms are over with, Sarah would have arrived and we would go about and do what all children in a hotel do: Wreak havoc. She and I would ride the elevator to the 91,736th floor (40th in real life) and would then find ourselves some foliage. We would then extract all the little brown pebbles that coat the soil, and head over to the atrium. From there, we would be dropping our projectiles onto the people dining and lounging below. It was a unique experience – especially thrilling when you get to have a pebble thrown into a glass or hit the stupid piano woman. They literally INVITE you to aim at them. Who told them to turn the open-side of the glass up? It is illogical and just screams to us kids to go bully.
And we’d never get caught. We always switch floors and locations. But then when we started spitting, well, that was another story :P