Most people leave their hotel rooms, but I'm stuck in here all day, at least until I go and visit our pit to witness our righteously slow progress. It's all about preparation, and nothing is ever straight, so it has to be straightened out. Even by 1959 they couldn't do straight, maybe we never will (I notice the bath panel here doesn't fit). For sure we shall have the only straight kitchen in Christendom by the time Scott's finished, which will probably be Christmas.
Hotel rooms have improved, you can work in here, you can die in here, there's not a lot of point in trying to do anything else. You leave the Discovery channel on and learn how to restore a 911, or listen curious as antique dealers accuse each other of not being nice people, you become dependent on sachets, you contemplate the whisky bottle and plastic porn and stare in the mirror. The mirror is never more than a few feet from your face.
But I've been working, working on the most over designed square footage of cupboard space ever imagined and periodically deeply ashamed of myself, longing for other options. While I could never buy them, I can at least admire the crappy low voltage light fittings in this hotel room, they are satisfactorily crappy, but then I've just spent three days in middle England getting close to an aneurysm over the design of a front door.