Last night I decided that enough was enough. An end had to be put to this rudeness. After all, they were merely doing a job of work.
So, rather than ignoring their calls of "Hi Honey, need some company?", I stopped and politely informed them that, whilst I truly appreciated the offer, I was going back to my hotel to read my book.
I had the book with me and I showed it to them. Homicide, a Year on the Killing Streets. [1]
This had a strange effect. They seemed to understand what I said not as,
No thanks, I'm going home to read my book.
But rather as,
Yes please, not only would I like some company, I'd like a Thai bath with all three of you.
I was haranged and pestered virtually all the way into the hotel lobby.
Moral:
Never discuss literature with prostitutes.
[1] it's just struck me, perhaps not the ideal book to show to a pack of prostitutes.
1 comment:
African prossies are great.
When I was dossing in a cheap hostel in the (now quite scary) Jo'burg suburb of Yeoville in the mid 90's, I'd pass them every day and night on the way to/from the coffee shop / pub. Always dead friendly and never too pushy. They'd enquire if I was interested, I'd reply in the negative, we'd smile and wave to each other, and go our separate ways.
Their fellow union members in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe were a little more pushy, but that was my own fault I s'pose.
The Rough Guide did say that the grotty hotel where I was staying doubled up as a brothel. But it was only once I'd paid my monies to stay there that I realised that this meant that the register of guests was passed to the working girls who'd then knock on your bedroom door in the wee small hours, calling you by name as they attempted to ply their trade.
"Hello, Mister Brian, it's Pia here. Business? Business?"
Quite charming in its own way I s'pose.
** wanders off in nostagiac daydreams of holidays past **
Post a Comment