Posh Sister reveals the secrets of five star living
It took five years of waiting and three months of planning, but the Posh Sister and I finally managed to get to Belfast for a couple of days last week, where, I learned some of the secrets to living a posh lifestyle.
The five star Merchant Hotel was our destination. She and I had stayed there before, five years ago, when they had a special deal on. We had a wonderful time, but it took that half decade for the special deal to come around again so that I could afford to go. When I rang the Posh Sister in November about the possibility of going, she didn't hesitate for a moment, and told me that it 'behoves' us to go, whatever that means.
Lesson one in posh living is having a proper email address to book posh hotels with. The Posh Sister is a professor and her emails are automatically signed to that effect. 'Let me book it', says she. 'They may not look fondly on gmail with a Dundalk reference in it's address'. So she did and last Monday, the 'Prof' and I were on the train to Belfast.
I had booked us a couple of tickets to Titantic, which I was very much looking forward to. The Posh Sister ended up also being impressed with the facility, having made our way around it on a very blustery afternoon. Lesson two came about three quarters of the way through the exhibit where there are exact replicas of the first class and third class cabins. As I stuck my head into the first class cabin, eyeball on the glass and gawking at the lead crystal goblets, the silk sheets and the hand-turned four poster bed, the Posh Sister put a sad look on her Chanel-covered bake and said: 'Isn't it terrible how those poor people had to travel in conditions like this?' As if it was a famine ship or something. 'No', I said. 'This is the first class cabin, the third class one is over here'. The Posh Sister could hardly contain her surprise third class was a lot worse.
We headed for the luxurious cocoon of the Merchant Hotel and were greeted like old friends by the receptionist who said that the concierge would bring the bags up to the room and 'show us around'. And while I listened to the concierge talk about the gold taps, the sunken bath, the non steam mirrors in the bathroom and the 24 hour room service, the Posh Sister completely ignored him, showing him that she was well used to all these extras, while I oohed and ahhed at his every word. Here was lesson three coming.
The awkward moment arrived where yer man had told us all he could about the facilities but hadn't made for the door. I expected he was waiting for something other than my profound thanks. The Posh Sister never lifted her head from her laptop while I rooted through the purse and handed him a pound. Yer man gave me a look like I'd handed him one of the Wee Lad's snotty tissues, and left. I don't know what he was expecting, but a pound is worth about five euro for God's sake.
After the sumptuous breakfast the following morning, I headed out to the front door of the hotel for a fag. A man in his sixties came walking past and gave me a smile. I smiled back and he said: 'You're enjoying that anyway'. 'I am indeed', I said agreeably. Then he said: 'Sure you deserve it, working in there all morning'. The Posh Sister laughed when I told her how I was mistaken from some Belfast biddy. 'You never learn', she said.