The Edelweiss - Far From The Pretty White Flower We Know And Love.

It is one of those days. The boss has left for the day. The coffee and large can of V wore off about an hour ago. The rest of your colleagues are purposefully typing away while you stare blankly at the screen. It is a Friday afternoon around 3 30. What do you do? The answer is: look up the world’s ugliest hotels, Day One.

We started local. The Edelweiss Motel in Paihia is pretty damn gross. The bottom of the house looks a lot like my grandparent's house- not refurbished since 1920, with a half painted sunroom, and a half assed attempt at an awning. That would be fine. I could stay in that and hope I was getting a piano sing along and boiled potatoes for lunch. Except, that’s all not all. The top of the motel is entirely different and seems to have been thrown on the top. It is a particularly awful shade of red against stark white with a poo coloured lining. Yes, it is indeed poo coloured. Now, here you are thinking- so the outside is ugly but surely the inside will be cute or retro. Unfortunately, I present you with the new Anti Feng Shui styled room. Two mismatched chairs- straight from the Sallie- placed in front of the door. It is going to be a bitch to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Although maybe a knock to the head would make this room look more pleasant… and if you want to see the television, you’re not going to see it from the sofa bed. In fact, the television is smaller than my alarm clock. I wouldn’t bother. If you’re in unit 3, you’re really lucky. The children get the bunk beds which should belong on an ACC add. The parents are luckier. They get the stars and floral duvet. Unfortunately, there is not enough space to climb into the bed. A little too close for comfort there. I’m sure they won’t be getting into bed after they help their child into the ambulance after falling from the bed onto the chair placed so helpfully under the bed. I hope the distance from the motel to the hospital is a selling point for these families.

Even better- the Edelweiss motel suggests you stay for your honeymoon! Now, there’s a great way to begin marital life.

Photos forthcoming..

Sunday Fear.

Ah, Sunday - a day that used to be relaxing, but now only calculates in my head as the day before Monday. It reigns as the last day of freedom from insanity and the constant longing to leap into a car and just drive.. drive.. and keep on driving. Until I reach Picton, where I'd have to take a ferry, which makes me think that taking a plane would be an easier option - and possibly cheaper considering the rise in the price of fuel. Then I start thinking.. which option would I propose to a client. Car, or plane - or campervan. And what could I do to make their trip really memorable once they'd taken the ferry? Kapiti Island, perhaps, or a short stop in the Marlborough Sounds if they were heading South.

Then I realise, if I'm analysing escape like this - there's a slight possibility that I have become the job, despite my struggles against this very thing.

I've been doing this job for about a year now, and I must admit I thought it was absolutely brilliant when I began. Everybody thinks their first job straight out of university is great - until they strike a downbeat colleague or a bossy boss, or a client they just can't handle.. or they become the job. To be fair, my bosses are brilliant and most of the clients are ok at least - but when I began I wasn't so lucky with my colleague, and now it seems I've become the job. This is where my Sunday Fear comes in.

Sunday Fear is my name for the feeling you get towards the end of Sunday afternoon - the one that has you saying 'I just can't bear going back to work tomorrow.' - and I generally like my work, so I found myself analysing why I just couldn't hack it.. then I realised it stemmed from my original fear of walking in the door and finding my old colleague 'A' sitting at his desk and looking (as ever) like he was going to axe murder his computer.. and then me.
It's the fear that my job would overtake my life and I would find myself still at the office at six o'clock (only half an hour after close, but still overtime I'm probably not going to be paid for), still treating a client because well.. it's my job. Because it's what I do, and what I seem to be good at.

It's the fear of having to finally admit that I am no longer myself.

In a bizarre twist of fate - I am Travel Agent.