Three French Hens

[The sales manager here at the Cute Vic, a bothered Gallic queen I call Three French Hens, bustled behind the front desk to stir up drama. Portly, shaved bald, wire rims, and aglow with stress in his almost-silk shirt. We occasionally house Very Important Persons of the diplomatic variety. I checked in a VIP a couple of days before New Years whose reservation was for a big room for a week. Unfortunately, we had overbooked that room type on the 31st, so when VIP checked in, I couldn't give him the rooms his VIP-ness so apparently deserved.]

[VIP didn't seem to care; any ol' room with two beds would do for his self-effacing, diplomatic self. Of course, Three French Hens went ballistique when he found out, sputtering and squawking to anyone who would listen (including the guest) that he was so sorry that the front desk idiotes had put His Excellency in "the worst room in our 'otel,"]

[Today, T.F.H. stood sheepishly on the balcony and floated down to me an unaerodynamic fax from VIP, commending the hotel and our staff's hospitality. Pfui! (However, it was the first of what I'm sure will be a lifetime of faxes from foreign embassies commending my prowess in one area or another.)]

[Notwithstanding our fullness at New Year's, the hotel is at verrrry low occupancy right now. We hourly serfs are having our hours cut, and one rumor circulated this morning that, if 2003 is as bad as '02, the Cute Vic might have to close. I'm so lucky my livelihood doesn't depend on this place, but I feel for the nonunionized, barely English-speaking housekeeping staff who have been here thru three different owners.]

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[Later: OMG, OMG, OMG - I finally got one in! (Fifth letter down, in response to a typically addlepated George Will column a couple of days ago.)]