Daisy Dresses-Up

I didn’t plan for this to happen. Can’t even remember how it started. What I do know is that it was a Friday morning, I was in Room 139, and the Spanish Chief of Defense’s wife had come to stay. I simply couldn’t resist. Those beautiful dresses lathered in intricate designs cried out to me, calling my name through the darkness of the wardrobe like some sort of tribal chant, growing louder and louder until I answered their call. I slipped the little black number on, smooth material clinging tightly to my body like an infant. Pulling out my Nokia 6085, I flipped it up, located the camera button, and SNAP! I guess that’s when it all began…

Room 122 – how I would dread this one. Knocking on the door only to be greeted by silence, greasy doorknob in my hand, attempting to turn it as chip fat slid through my fingers, finding myself in a state of a room. This one’s definitely Gracie. Bloody Americans - all the same! Scooping a long faded vest, abundantly stained with unidentifiable liquids, from the bedroom floor, I began to change. Dropping the duster that hung precariously in my right hand, I entered a world of Sloppy Joes and Bud Lights. SNAP! Wading through a pool of discarded beer bottles, I eventually located the window and struggled to force it open, relieved when cool fresh air caressed my face, a counteract to the stale chili con carne slowly suffocating the room.

Room 109 – always kind to me. For the briefest of moments, I gaze at the reflection in the bathroom mirror, forgetting about my rent arrears and the festering patches of mold inhabiting my bedroom wall like uninvited squatters, and instead become Princess Amelia. Shy yet strangely alluring, the daughter of Crown Prince Felipe of Madonna, soon to be married to Sir Nicholas Forrester, billionaire philanthropist and founder of the Orion Nebula. Envied by all, her life filled with caviar and diamonds. SNAP! That’ll do Daisy, I thought, as I reached for my Morrison’s own-brand cloth, liberally spraying Flash, the one that proclaims to do the ‘hard work’, before vigorously scouring away at one of Rimmel London’s creations infesting my countertop.

Room 78 – double figures equals double life. Here we have Anne, devoted wife, caring mother of two wonderful children, an environmentally conscientious woman committed to making the world a better place. Or so you would think. Pulling out the lavatory brush from its holder, dark glasses shading my eyes, I aim at the doll carefully positioned under the bedclothes, monotonously moaning for a hug. Or so they want you to believe. Secretly an agent sent by MI5 to uncover the mastermind behind the September hackings, I’m awaiting conformation of the latest suspect. Willing to risk all I remove my earpiece, load my Walther PPK and take several shots at the target. Peeling back the sheets my worst nightmares are confirmed - the victim is in fact John Walters, my second in command. As I shakily step away from the body, a hoarse cry slips from my mouth. The murder weapon still loaded and ready to roll, I shove it against the side of my head, pull back the trigger and BANG! My body drops to the ground like a stone, convulsing violently, froth exploding around my lips. SNAP! Time brings me back to reality. Jumping up, I straighten my crumpled clothes and regain my breath. I wipe the saliva from the floor with a swift movement of my left foot before flying back to the rounds of chores still awaiting my completion.

Fast forward to the end of another back-breaking day and here I am, traipsing past the gaudy neon and low-key lights of the hotel’s Entertainment Hall. Handbag slung over my left shoulder and armed with the keys to my beat up jalopy, the strangest of sights greet my tired eyes. For there they are; three familiar outfits worn by three unknown faces which only serve to make for one very confused Daisy. They all look so different, and so unlike anything I could ever envisage. Sadly, it appeared that once again my overactive imagination had been up to its old tricks. Mind games, I believe they call it, but what do I know? Gently shaking my head in disapproval, I head home for the night. Back to the stale bread, sour milk, one bar electric fire and empty fridge. Back to reality. And that’s when it finally hits me. All those people. Are they really who they think they are? Or are they just Daisy’s collection of marionettes? Who can tell – although there’s one thing I know for sure.

Dressing up’s all well and good, but life is so much more beautiful when you dream.