She had been
a fancy lady in her day with curved Regency skirts, a large balcony, big-eyed bow
fronted windows with cast iron lashes, and boasting a complexion of clear
Portland and a bright red brassy front door kissing guests in from long tiring journeys.
Her plush red interiors gaped deep, warm and welcoming. She was a wet whisky
welcome with smoky lamp-lit eyes, a promise of naughty niceties away from
grinding convention. A tart with a heart and the great and the good loved her.
Lords and Ladies were frequent visitors as they took the waters and penned
daily letters home. Not everyone could afford her, though detectives often enjoyed
free rooms paid for by adulterers seeking kiss me quick divorces. For others
she was a special occasion treat with her wedding suite, her afternoon teas or
her birthday ballroom.
Staff
enjoyed their own dalliances as they made up the vallances. Life was jolly both
below and above stairs.
With every
season came new reason to love her and many a well-heeled widower moved in all
year round for that permanent holiday, offering solicitous service and changing
daily company plus the regulars for cards three times a week. Oscar Wilde once
slept here and a Prime Minister too, though some said that was just a rumour.
Habits
changed, the seaside declined, decimated first by cruising, then the package
holiday era, our poor lady’s paintwork curled and cried but she held her pride
and when her basement was invaded she kicked the trap door shut behind him so
no one could find him, snuffing his fire out too.
Oh, the
thousand stories she could tell if she were a sea shell.
But now
she’s a budget hotel, scarcely better than a motel and people come for
conferences rather than romances.
The silver
service may be no more but she still has views to die for.
©LS King 2023
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