Sore bottom in a hotel

In the late 1980s, I visited London for a week with my fianceé, and as we were young and impecunious at the time, we ended up in a very cheap hotel near King’s Cross railway station.

The hotel was very down at heel but the people who ran it, a Greek Cypriot couple, seemed nice enough. They had a little boy of about five years old typical of his race – big brown doe eyes, olive skin and a shock of black hair, cut in a rather obviously home-made ‘pudding basin’ style. The door to the family’s own flat was at the bottom of the main stairs.

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