For at least an hour I stood outside

The Grand Hotel

High above Scarborough Sands

I tried to assure myself

That this Victorian pile was not that high

And that if you looked at it mathematically

Then it was no more than thirty feet up

(Room 69 was just thirty feet above this street)

The stairs were out a complete no no

So I elected for the narrow lift

A bumpy journey of about forty seconds

A hop across the abyss (do not look down)

And three doors along was Room 69

I had fantasies of Stella opening the door naked

Her hairy bush on public display

And then lying on the generous hotel bed

With her legs apart waiting for me

I knocked timidly at the wooden door

Which was suspiciously ajar and entered

But it was not Stella who greeted me

But Frank wrapped in a white towel

Fresh from his morning shower

Sipping from a glass of orange juice

That was my last conscious memory