She didn’t know it before, but she knew it now. The smell of women’s safety smells of cabbages. Who knew? She didn’t.
Jessica had heard of the all-women hostel nestled in a leafy part of London, but she had never dared to book a room there. What if it turned out not to be safe? What if it was a scam, and she would book her room only to discover that it was a myth, a fabrication, a hushed whisper on a grapevine. She swallowed and pressed ‘book room’. It was really unusual to have a mouse that was activated by her swallowing reflex, but Jessica wasn’t like other women. So what if it cost millions to develop the swallow-double click mouse…Jessica was a successful odour panel member, and those guys earned £10 and hour. To hell with it!
She had booked it. She had booked a single room at the Greensmith’s House. She was going. She packed her towel. Sheets and other bedding was not required, this was some edgy place. Check in was after 1:30. Check out was 10:30. She beamed in delight. She loved to know check in and check out times. It reminded her of the Kwik Save.
Jessica had booked a first class ticket as she wanted it to be special from the start. When she woke up that morning she tingled with Anticipation. This was her new Avon Shower gel with a menthol afterglow. She really should buy some more from the girl down the road. Intrusive questions spilled froth from her frontal lobes. Would there be a kitchenette or a large catering style kitchen with different units? Would there be glasses so she could get a drink? What if she needed a shit and someone was in the next stall in the bogs? Was there a full length mirror in the room so she could check out her jump suit or straighten her fez? These questions excited her and terrified her in equal measure as she hurtled towards the capital with her Penn State pretzels and complimentary cup of coffee.
To be continued…