‘That’s one hell of a riveted beam,’ Mr B says admiringly. He’s looking up at the
ceiling. Decades of living with this man mean that I’m not surprised. He looks at
structure, technical stuff, how things were made. I notice details. Some of them catch
my eye and imprint themselves into my brain.
We’re in a hotel, (The Coal Exchange, Cardiff, formally opened in1886). It’s our
second visit here – it’s quirky and historically interesting. There are things that don’t
quite work: these add to its appeal. We both like it, despite, amongst other things,
the hideous (and almost completely unstocked) bar.
But that was last night and now it’s this morning. A different, dark space. If uncosy is
a word, then that’s what this room is. Most guests are on business. They’ve brought
their devices to the breaking of their fast. They’re meeting in huddles, several with
youthful, sculpted bottoms in branded fitness gear. Four older women are on a
birthday treat. There’s a limp taupe helium balloon attached to the forearm of one of
them. Ribbons trail behind her as she works her way down the buffet.
I’m looking at plants, deciding which of these massive specimens could possibly be
real and feeling briefly irritated at the lack of non-dairy provision. He protests about
the German jam and marmalade, and the plastic packaging. Why not British? Why
not sustainable? Our annoyance is swiftly swatted away. We need to go. There will
be no leisurely morning – things to be done, people to call, lights to be collected for
Saturday night’s show.
We pause to allow a very short perspiring man carry a full urn past us at speed, and
then a couple give way to us at the door. They both have long thick grey curly hair
and are dressed for a day of leisurely sightseeing. He’s come prepared, carrying a
carton of oat milk.
‘And you can see it’s hand mixed concrete.’
I follow Mr. B’s glance upwards. ‘Oh, can you?’
‘It’s the air bubbles,’ he says. Of course it is.
*
On buildings and breakfast.
