A room at the Inn

Having made a booking and driven many miles to see your "bed for the night" it always seems that the procedure for obtaining the key, advancing down the corridor on floor three looking for room 368, is to remove yourself from all you know and places you in a capsule in which a clock is ticking.

Reception confirming your presence brandishes a key with a reminder that dinner is served at eight o'clock sharp. The rules of the establishment are pasted on your door and as you struggle to fit the key the door eventually opens to a narrow cubical largely taken up with a bed and wardrobe. There might be a small desk with a pot of tea which only requires hot water and a complementary biscuit to make your welcome complete. Off to the left is the shower cubical and a sink. And as you peer around the door you are met by an apparition, yourself, tired and hungry staring back at you in the huge mirror. The ubiquitous multi channelled television waits, it is the only link to your own domestic nest 200 miles away but somehow reassuring in that the programs seem to be a common thread no matter where you are.
It's Tuesday and the meeting tomorrow will be much the same as last week, a sparring session to denote who is the Alpha male and how many widgets they will buy this time.
Hunger drives you down stairs to see what's cooking and also what else this less than salubrious establishment offers.The bar looks tired and the barman more so. Perhaps one before dinner to cheer myself up but even a splash of alcohol can't raise the spirits much and the conversation between strangers is hardly creative. 

Staying long. Where are you from. Going tomorrow, I see.

A little after eight the doors to the dining room swing open and there is a surge to find a seat. The menu, like the tablecloth hasn't been changed in a while but beggars can't be choosers. The swing door into the kitchen bangs open to reveal our waiter looking tired and somewhat depressed at the thought of being here, like the barman, (hang on it is the barman) takes our order and shuffles off into the kitchen.
The food is not unappealing since I am ravenous but the smell of cooked cabbage does little to lighten the spirits. Meals can be moments of absolute satisfaction, given the right company they can be memorable but eating with a bunch of company reps and a sprinkling of resident pensioners is hardly a salutary experience.
As you settle down in the double bed you wonder if this is what your dreams amount to since by Thursday you will be repeating everything over again with only the long drive home to look forward to.
The dream used to be of being in charge, not only of what you do or where you will be at any given time, but of not being part of someone else's calendar, of having your own space time a personal capsule and like captain Spock "go where no man has ever gone".