top of page

Early we got lucky


EARLY WE GOT LUCKY


Early, that is before many weeks went by, we got lucky. Various projects we weren’t expecting came to town and the Continental suddenly filled with contractors.

They were building a new passenger ferry terminal to dock high speed catamaran services to the Hook of Holland; a new supermarket went up; new infrastructure in the form of Anglian Water’s water treatment pipes and plant and Westminster Dredgers were digging a deeper channel in the sea that bigger ships could navigate to Felixstowe and Harwich International.


We were indeed busy, busy, busy. Somehow, without experience we coped and with few complaints, but this pressure of business did highlight our weaknesses. One thing that came to light was an annoying habit of getting double-booked. The booking records when we took over consisted of a page a week diary giving so little space that confusion and mistakes were inevitable. We did, after a lot of struggle, angst and consternation devise a paper system that proved pretty fool-proof. This sufficed until we felt strong enough, professional enough, permanent enough to buy what we really needed, a computer and front of house management programme.


This foray into technology turned out to be expensive. We made mistakes all the way. First, we were persuaded by a salesman who promised and promised and promised lots more than the equipment supplied could do, and the company when questioned about it simply said, “Tough luck” and put the phone down. The Bank of Scotland had financed the purchase and when we refused to pay them threatened us with legal action. We caved in and limped along dissatisfied, fed up every day. Reminded all the time of being duped and powerless against kid-gloved bullies, criminal operators.


That a couple of these sharks several years later went to jail for their tricks didn’t make us feel any better. A year or two further on, before they were jailed, we had invested in a new system far superior, more expensive, but doing everything promised.


MUCH LATER, LUCKY AGAIN


The wind-farmers’ arrival completely changed the game. I think they had been in Harwich a while staying in other accommodations until their complaints had been acted on, “too noisy, can’t sleep for the music.” “Food! Was it?” “Rooms small, scruffy, non-en-suite.” Just everything not good enough. “Internet, wifi not available!” So, they came to us and everything convenient in unique designer achievement. Food, real food, organic.


Blossom the Alchemist.


She’s in the kitchen talking to the fridge

to symphony of chopping board and cupboard doors.

The kettle’s heavy breathing agitates to climax

and the tap’s hissing at the pan with symbol clashing lid.

And being stirred a jingly jangly bowl chimes in.

Overall and throughout this cacophony

her gently muttered coaxing brings some calm.

And then from the kitchen smells pervade

as talking she persuades, teasing the dish

to yield the pleasures of its’ secret locked-in treasures.



Plain old gourmet fine-dining standard casually served as the everyday norm giving what they wanted when they wanted. And clean. Everything scrubbed everyday by our staff of beautiful Polish ladies. Rooms, everything.


We were happy, happy, happy. They were happy, happy, happy. And any complaints they did have were dealt with immediately. They were few but I can’t say there was no tension.

It was a cruel workload with harsh demands. On many occasions 4 in the morning till 11 at night.


The money was another matter. It was good but we really struggled to get it. At one time the company owed us £50,000. Ouch! We couldn’t afford to give much more credit. Supporting them, twenty odd of them, 7 days a week, 3 meals a day; the extra staffing level wages bill; the sundries; the mortgages; the VAT. The bar and a few regular residents, a bit of passing food trade and a few extra fringe activities were having to finance the whole exercise. It was difficult, it was straining, we were getting deeper into debt. The active smiles melted into set, emotionless faces, living breathing death masks.


One of the fringe activities developed by an enthusiastic friend whose work and positive input motivated and kept us going was monthly poetry meetings. The events didn’t bring in much money, probably none, but they were a relief, worthwhile social contact inside the hotel but outside the business. We took turns reading a piece. Initially I read earlier stuff, but the events got me writing again.


One evening I offered my new sea shanty. I cannot sing but of course as a poet I didn’t care.

Poets have to live as if they can’t rely on their next breath. So, I sang.


Anyway, historically I bet sea shanty singers heaving on the sheets and straining at the windlass didn’t know a demi semi quaver from an opus. In a way bringing clever, comforting, look-at-me polish to their sweat and desperation may be a nice memorial but could too be seen as a gloating obscene distortion of often unpalatable truths.


That aside I’d written a new sea shanty so I sang it. Did a world-premiere, in our marble-walled octagonal dining room entertaining the twenty or so gathered.


From Scotland, from Ireland and

further away,

the windfarmers headed for

Dovercourt Bay.


Lay lads olay

they came for a blow job

to Dovercourt Bay.


Working and working and working

all day

just riding the swell that

delivers the spray,


lay lads olay


to be welcomed ashore

by that special smell


lay lads olay


which we call a blow job

on Dovercourt Bay.



It went down well. Some nearly but not quite sea sick rolling about with laughter. Another glass of wine settled everybody down.


Mentioning the Polish beauties again, reminds me we couldn’t get local people to do the work. The general cleaning, laundry, all of which we did in house; chambermaid’s duties and all such back-room tasks with results unnoticed until neglected but which are taken for granted by everyone.


The locals we started, (and nearly everyone who asked for a job got one) proved unsatisfactory or walked out for no proper reasons we could fathom. We had lots. One group, friends of each other, behaved like a regiment of robots downing tools at 10 o’clock on the dot and marching into the bar with cups of tea and cigarettes. I called them ‘the train’.


The regulation, EU, trade union, official, human rights programmed clock watching morning break. Farcical when we were empowering everybody. Everybody operating without supervision not being watched at all and just assumed to be doing whatever was necessary to the smooth proper and better functioning of the business. Our relationship with the staff was based wholly on trust. Needless to say, cups of tea, coffee, glasses of Coke whatever were available anytime on a help-yourself basis.


We had two ladies rather plump and dumpy who could have walked straight off a Beryl Cook canvas and I dubbed ‘team fatso-fatso’. Puffing and blowing they could hardly manage the stairs. We didn’t have a lift. After a time, a few months, they drifted off.


Immigrants the Poles truly were, some spoke little English. To us they were sunshine.











コメント


Featured Posts
Check back soon
Once posts are published, you’ll see them here.
Recent Posts
Archive
Search By Tags
No tags yet.
Follow Us
  • Facebook Basic Square
  • Twitter Basic Square
  • Google+ Basic Square
bottom of page