No hope

In the dining room of the Green Lawns Hotel, I find myself trapped in a 1950's novel. Fuzzy, muffled musak, possibly of a foreign origin, plays irritatingly in the background of this vast and empty expanse of white linen. Two elderly waitresses dressed in regulation black and white hover impatiently. It's the first week of September so no children but where are the Saga folk? Two couples who dare not speak in loud voices are present plus a solitary German who is trying to explain the origin of his name to the disinterested lady who only wants to know whether he requires coffee. I have a sea view from my table for four. Clearly, the other three are not turning up. I must move my chair some distance from the table in order to enjoy the panorama which means I cannot see the lights of Falmouth Bay whilst eating. There is no sea view from my bedroom despite the fact that I had to climb a staircase akin to the north face of the Eiger. The food is so bad that I dare not venture back into the dining room for the breakfast I have paid for the following morning. I write some notes on a spare piece of paper in th hope that they will think I am an hotel inspector.