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The Liverpool Bridal Suite 90s
by Jilliana Ranicar-Breese

My husband and I went to Liverpool for my mother’s funeral. I had got a special “Liverpudlian” rate in a Victorian converted mansion hotel in Sefton Park and ended up with the over-the-top bridal suite. The ceiling was royal blue with gold twinkling stars and naked white Grecian tacky statues adorning the bathroom.

The deal was dinner, bed and breakfast. However, the dinner was poor quality with everything piled high on one plate looking and tasting very unappetising. The dining room was full of international interpreters because across, in the park an emergency camp had been set up for asylum seekers. We retired to bed after consuming a good bottle of red wine.

To sleep. Perchance to dream? Impossible, the double bed was lumpy and we both rolled into the middle of the mattress and had a dreadful sleepiness night.

The next morning, exhausted, for some reason, my magical husband Martin stood up on the bed and decided to jump up and down. Whatever possessed him? There was a resounding crack and the whole bed and mattress tipped down to the base bedhead releasing clouds of dusty confetti. On examination two or three of the cheap Ikea-esque wooden struts had broken.

Sheepishly we went down to breakfast wondering how the manager was going to view our nocturnal escapades. Well it was the bridal suite after all.

To our amazement, he thanked us profusely for letting him know in time so that the bed could be repaired before an important wedding that very weekend.

There would be no charge for anything. Thank God we just stayed the one night. Liverpool humour at its best.