Another blog fest! Make sure you check out the other entries too, and especially the host, Mia @ My Literary Jam and Toast.
It was probably the fifth pension we had checked out that afternoon. My mum explained her problem using a French phrase book and managed to get her point across to the little old man sitting behind the tiny reception desk – he seemed very kind and sweet. He took us up a very narrow flight of stairs. The wallpaper was of tree branches covered in pink and yellow blossom and there were brown wrinkles of paper curling off the walls – though it didn’t look too bad because in places you could mistake the peeling paper for brown twigs. It smelt rather moldy too, but I felt comfortable despite the fact. I was really hoping we’d find a hard bed – my feet were throbbing from schlepping round the streets and the traipsing up and down staircases, not to mention my tired shoulders from carrying my backpack. To be honest, I was just happy to get away from the smell of poodle poop and perfume – it really accentuated the smell of my mum’s jeans.
He showed us one room – my mum felt the mattress – it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a second room – my mum felt the mattress – it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a third room – my mum felt the mattress – it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a fourth room – my mum felt the mattress – it was hard enough. He told us the price of the fourth room and it was too expensive. He half opened a door which seemed to lead into a kitchen, poked his head in and yelled out something I didn’t understand. Seconds later a fat greasy middle-aged woman with a protruding chin and a bloody apron chased us down the stairs and out into the street with a carving knife. The type of woman you’d read about in Brother’s Grimm books. I started crying, my mum started hyperventilating and James, always looking at the bright side of life said to me, ‘Don’t worry, Jane. Justht think of the sthtories you’ll be able to tell your kidsth!’