- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
- Messages
- 69,570
If you recall Guardians, last week I was on my way to Whitby, having had a train cancelled, and having to lug more gear with me than intended because of Tool Man's combined incompetence and selfishness 
Despite the delayed journey, and a change of trains at York, I had managed to make reasonable time, in part because of the fact that the Scarborough to Whitby bus had been 40 minutes late, and I left the station just as it finally arrived.
Tool Man, who had suckered me into going in the first place, was behaving in an extremely odd fashion, which I can only put down to the fact he is not very cool under fire. And that he is a $%@£ of course! Having failed to apologise for reneging on his various oft-repeated promises in relation to the trip, he made no enquiry as to how my journey was going, but told me, somewhat brusquely, that he was in Whitby town, with his wife Lolly, and several cronies, and that they would only be staying for 20 minutes, for some reason. He kept resorting to Gumpisms, such as "Well, we just do what we do." On arrival at the station, I gave him a ring to see where he was. Now I have spent many years telling people that Tool Man is not as stupid as he pretends to be, but I have finally realised that I am stupid for doing so. Despite having been to Whitby, a very small town, many times, he was unable to give me his location, he even told me he was on the other side of the river that he had only recently crossed. His response when I told him I was outside the station irritated me, because it wasn't just stupid, it was rude, "Don't know it!" I was 50 yards away, in front of one of the most prominent buildings in Whitby, and carrying a rucsac and a suitcase, but it was me that had to find HIM. It turned out he was lying about the station, because in the 5 minute conversation I eventually had with him, he told me that the bus to the steam rally went from there, (another piece of misinformation). Tool Man went off again, giving me rather ridiculous excuses as to why he couldn't go for a pint or a cup of tea, and I walked back to the station, where the taxis were parked
Despite my irritation, I decided to put it to the back of my mind until I could address it directly, which I knew I would get the chance to do. My chariot departed up the hill towards my hotel. It was a large house situated on a prominent corner at the top of one of Whitby's most characterful streets. I had received an email the previous day, informing me that the proprietors were away on holiday, but they gave me a pass code, with which to enter the building, and told me that they had left me a 'Welcome Pack' at 'Reception'. The code worked fine, and I entered a small hall, with various doors, some open, others closed. I could see what appeared to be a dining room, and atop a cabinet were several plastic envelopes, one of which carried my name. Inside was a pair of keys, and a typed sheet of paper. A post-it noted stated that I was in Room 2, on the 1st floor. There was no sign of anyone about that I could see, and I couldn't see the promised 'Welcome Pack', though it turned out that I already had it in my hand!
I carried my bags up the stairs, and entered the smallest hotel room I have ever seen!
Most of the room was the width of the door, the rest, slightly larger than the single bed provided. There wasn't even a chair! The bathroom was tiny, with the sink about the size of one of my hands 
I read the typed note, which said that the hotel could not currently offer 'room service', but if they got up early enough, guests might have the possibility of exchanging their towels, and toilet rolls could be found in a basket in the hall. Breakfasts were off, and the coffee maker had been turned off until the owners returned from their holidays. I was astonished, none of this had been on their website, this was supposed to be a hotel! 
I unpacked, and put my belongings away, as best I could in the two small pieces of doll's house furniture. Filling the supplied kettle was very difficult due to the size of the sink, but I made a cup of tea, using one of the four supplied tea-bags, and some milk I had brought with me. It was still only late afternoon, and it wasn't currently raining, so I thought I'd nip out, and renew my acquaintance with Whitby, and get something to eat
Just down the road was some sort of art-thing, which I guessed represented the great local photographer, Frank Sutcliffe
Something I've never previously noticed about Whitby is the number of dogs in the town. It seems almost every visitor, and many residents, have at least one, and some walk about with 4 or 5. Towards the bottom of Skinner Street is an antique/junk shop, which is run by a particularly miserable old man. I called in briefly, but he had no knives. I turned left into an even steeper street, Flowergate, and called in several more similar shops, as well as an army surplus shop. I even met an old reader of one of the magazines I used to write for
Following the street all the way down to the bottom of the hill, I eventually reached the harbour, and the swing-bridge, which separates to the two parts of Whitby from one another.
Despite the delayed journey, and a change of trains at York, I had managed to make reasonable time, in part because of the fact that the Scarborough to Whitby bus had been 40 minutes late, and I left the station just as it finally arrived.
Tool Man, who had suckered me into going in the first place, was behaving in an extremely odd fashion, which I can only put down to the fact he is not very cool under fire. And that he is a $%@£ of course! Having failed to apologise for reneging on his various oft-repeated promises in relation to the trip, he made no enquiry as to how my journey was going, but told me, somewhat brusquely, that he was in Whitby town, with his wife Lolly, and several cronies, and that they would only be staying for 20 minutes, for some reason. He kept resorting to Gumpisms, such as "Well, we just do what we do." On arrival at the station, I gave him a ring to see where he was. Now I have spent many years telling people that Tool Man is not as stupid as he pretends to be, but I have finally realised that I am stupid for doing so. Despite having been to Whitby, a very small town, many times, he was unable to give me his location, he even told me he was on the other side of the river that he had only recently crossed. His response when I told him I was outside the station irritated me, because it wasn't just stupid, it was rude, "Don't know it!" I was 50 yards away, in front of one of the most prominent buildings in Whitby, and carrying a rucsac and a suitcase, but it was me that had to find HIM. It turned out he was lying about the station, because in the 5 minute conversation I eventually had with him, he told me that the bus to the steam rally went from there, (another piece of misinformation). Tool Man went off again, giving me rather ridiculous excuses as to why he couldn't go for a pint or a cup of tea, and I walked back to the station, where the taxis were parked
Despite my irritation, I decided to put it to the back of my mind until I could address it directly, which I knew I would get the chance to do. My chariot departed up the hill towards my hotel. It was a large house situated on a prominent corner at the top of one of Whitby's most characterful streets. I had received an email the previous day, informing me that the proprietors were away on holiday, but they gave me a pass code, with which to enter the building, and told me that they had left me a 'Welcome Pack' at 'Reception'. The code worked fine, and I entered a small hall, with various doors, some open, others closed. I could see what appeared to be a dining room, and atop a cabinet were several plastic envelopes, one of which carried my name. Inside was a pair of keys, and a typed sheet of paper. A post-it noted stated that I was in Room 2, on the 1st floor. There was no sign of anyone about that I could see, and I couldn't see the promised 'Welcome Pack', though it turned out that I already had it in my hand!
I carried my bags up the stairs, and entered the smallest hotel room I have ever seen!
Most of the room was the width of the door, the rest, slightly larger than the single bed provided. There wasn't even a chair! The bathroom was tiny, with the sink about the size of one of my hands I read the typed note, which said that the hotel could not currently offer 'room service', but if they got up early enough, guests might have the possibility of exchanging their towels, and toilet rolls could be found in a basket in the hall. Breakfasts were off, and the coffee maker had been turned off until the owners returned from their holidays. I was astonished, none of this had been on their website, this was supposed to be a hotel!
I unpacked, and put my belongings away, as best I could in the two small pieces of doll's house furniture. Filling the supplied kettle was very difficult due to the size of the sink, but I made a cup of tea, using one of the four supplied tea-bags, and some milk I had brought with me. It was still only late afternoon, and it wasn't currently raining, so I thought I'd nip out, and renew my acquaintance with Whitby, and get something to eat
Just down the road was some sort of art-thing, which I guessed represented the great local photographer, Frank Sutcliffe
Something I've never previously noticed about Whitby is the number of dogs in the town. It seems almost every visitor, and many residents, have at least one, and some walk about with 4 or 5. Towards the bottom of Skinner Street is an antique/junk shop, which is run by a particularly miserable old man. I called in briefly, but he had no knives. I turned left into an even steeper street, Flowergate, and called in several more similar shops, as well as an army surplus shop. I even met an old reader of one of the magazines I used to write for
Following the street all the way down to the bottom of the hill, I eventually reached the harbour, and the swing-bridge, which separates to the two parts of Whitby from one another.
