A Hotel Called Robert

There goes another lapse of activity on Burning Salad. Oh well. Sometimes it just seems slightly too daunting to not only put up with the day to day obulurks* of the world but also to try and process it. Well nevermind… I’ve been feeling more up to the task recently anyway. Which is just as well because I am writing this from the world famous yet ludicrously titled, one-star flea-pit hotel, Best Western Master Robert. Oh, yes I am.

And why has this unlikely circumstance come to pass you may wonder. Well, it is because I am round the corner from Heathrow airport. And the reason for that is that tomorrow I fly for New York. That’s right, The Big Apple as it’s known to those in the know.

Unfortunately, although I’m just getting into the swing of posting this, it would appear that Master Robert is somewhat greedy on the internet charges. The preceding shite has already cost me £3, so in order not to overheat the economy, I am forced to be concise…

Trish is going to hook up with The ‘Grid (her sister Ingrid). I am going to hook up and hang out with some pals and snoop around for good art. The cat is in the custody of Duncan MacQuarrie and Kev Hutcheson (if you’re looking for stories about jobbies in plant pots over the next week). I will drink 40s and update Burning Salad…

* This word is made up.