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You know all those Torchwood fics I write about Jack involving space ports or other odd austere, fundamentally colonialist environments? I am in the porntastic luxury hotel equivalent right now.
First off, it's in Bethnal Green, which is a bit the end of the world. Secondly, it's in a building from around 1810, that's been made dark, dreary and austere in a Kubrick-esque sort of way. The staff is Eastern European and both slightly hostile and overly helpful and there are enough weird decor items around that the whole thing feels a bit David Lynch as well.
The room itself is huge and one wall is all floor to ceiling glass windows that can be opened entirely to let in the air, as everything is covered with a weird, artful, modernist metal grating. The bathroom is completely exposed to the bedroom thanks to the glass wall the separates it (although there's a curtain that can be pulled across for privacy, but it can only be pulled across from the bedroom side, which is sort of sketchy).
It is soothing and lonely and the sort of place that says "use me in a location shoot for film about a luxury spa secretly run by malevolent aliens."
Right now, I'm trying to figure out the correct emotional response (although, you have to admit it's arguably the appropriate setting for the aftermath of this whole thing) and whether I should (or even can with the dreaded Sunday tube closures) figure out how to get to Camden Town for a Martin Carthy (dudes, Martin Carthy, I'm out of my mind if I don't go, but motivation feels challenging) gig.
ETA: There is a rubber ducky in the bathroom named LaLa (it's written on her). Pictures of EVERYTHING later.
First off, it's in Bethnal Green, which is a bit the end of the world. Secondly, it's in a building from around 1810, that's been made dark, dreary and austere in a Kubrick-esque sort of way. The staff is Eastern European and both slightly hostile and overly helpful and there are enough weird decor items around that the whole thing feels a bit David Lynch as well.
The room itself is huge and one wall is all floor to ceiling glass windows that can be opened entirely to let in the air, as everything is covered with a weird, artful, modernist metal grating. The bathroom is completely exposed to the bedroom thanks to the glass wall the separates it (although there's a curtain that can be pulled across for privacy, but it can only be pulled across from the bedroom side, which is sort of sketchy).
It is soothing and lonely and the sort of place that says "use me in a location shoot for film about a luxury spa secretly run by malevolent aliens."
Right now, I'm trying to figure out the correct emotional response (although, you have to admit it's arguably the appropriate setting for the aftermath of this whole thing) and whether I should (or even can with the dreaded Sunday tube closures) figure out how to get to Camden Town for a Martin Carthy (dudes, Martin Carthy, I'm out of my mind if I don't go, but motivation feels challenging) gig.
ETA: There is a rubber ducky in the bathroom named LaLa (it's written on her). Pictures of EVERYTHING later.
