When I, the Lost & Found specialist, received an email in which I was asked to write a column about three hats that were left behind by guests of the hotel, my first reaction was:
Fake. Not true. My editor plays a trick on me. A hat-trick.
Why did I think that?
I am the kind of bastard that suspects there’s an enemy behind every tree. I smoked too much weed when I was young and beautiful, you see. The drugs made me old, ugly and paranoid. And I’m an alcoholic. I drink. A lot. But mostly because I’m a pervert.
I desperately needed to know if this hat-thing assignment was a joke or not. My thoughts were getting out of control. I was getting out of control. I tried to call my editor and when she didn’t answer her phone I decided to pay her a surprise visit. As soon as I finished my third Bloody Mary that morning I put on my shoes and walked in kind of a straight line to Volkshotel.
‘How convenient’, I shouted at my editor, right after I kicked her door in. ‘Volkshotel celebrates its third birthday in a little while and around the same time three different people leave three different hats behind and I’m asked to write about those hats. That’s no coincidence. That’s a conspiracy. What are you trying to do to me? Are you trying to get me back in that hospital again? Answer me, you witch!’
My editor, a lovely lady that never hurt a fly in her life, didn’t lose her patience nor her cool. She smiled while she cleaned her fingernails with the tiny tip of a huge Bowie knife. Then she spoke impressive words. With a soft but firm voice she gave me a choice: write the fucking column or piss off.
Her point came across well. When you have as many children as I have you recognize an ultimatum when you are confronted with one. I apologized for everything, promised it would never happen again and crawled out of her office like a beaten dog.
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