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Capturing Elizabeth For over 40 years I’ve worked here, man and boy. A long time in any man’s life that is, especially one like mine that’s had more than its fair share of ups and downs. To think, in that time I’ve gone from a naïve 16-year-old lad with a chip on his shoulder and a bulge in his pocket, to a 59-year-old granddad – a granddad who is now feeling very old and very tired. It’s true to say a lot’s happened in that time, both for me and those around me, but the one thing I’ve always been able to rely on has been this place; the hotel: The Clarion. When I first walked through those revolving doors many moons ago, I was a runner – not a runner in the traditional sense you understand, I didn’t go about jogging everywhere, knocking good folk onto their backsides as I darted past. No, no. A runner is someone who does the work the rest of the staff might feel is below them. So say, if a message needed sending to the sixth floor and the lift is broken (as it invariably was in those early days), they’d send the runner; if someone stained their linen with something unspeakable, the runner would clean it and if the boiler was lacking coal, a runner would be dispatched and not allowed to return until he was carrying a fresh load. When I crossed that threshold for the first time... |
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