I was once taken to a Travelodge on a second date. We didn’t get a room, you understand. The guy actually rang ahead and reserved a table – an actual table – in the restaurant of a Travelodge, less than two miles from my house. Right there, beside the display table of cereal boxes and selection box of teabags. When we went to the bar and were asked for our room number, he looked the person serving us straight in the eye and said “We don’t have a room. We’ve just come for the ambience.” I was standing beside a stationery salesman from Newcastle, under fluorescent blue strip lights, holding a tepid glass of rosé. It was pretty bloody ambient.
Like all great things, Travelodge was knocked into existence just a few short months after my parents failed comprehensively to navigate contraception. Or to quote their (Travelodge’s – even my parents didn’t go this far) heart-stopping press release: “Guests have enjoyed an estimated 880m hours of sleep, 50m sausages and 10,950 sunrises and sunsets since Britain’s first budget hotel opened – the “Burton A38 (northbound) Travelodge in 1985.” That makes 2015 our 30th anniversary, and I for one intend to celebrate it with a wall-mounted box of shower gel and a mug-sized plastic kettle.
In many ways Travelodge and I are twins: both frequently found in light industrial areas, both a huge fan of thrift …
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