One
"Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language." Ludwig Wittgenstein, 1889 - 1951
My name is Dave Hume, and two months ago I fell through an interdimensional portal and ended up here. Well, that or I'm having a psychotic episode. Either way it's been fun. Let me tell you a bit about it.
I wake up in a lift. This is odd because I'm at least fairly positive I was in a bed when I fell asleep. My bed, in my flat, in London. The doors ping open onto what looks an awful lot like a hotel foyer. The words 'Hotel Foyer' inscribed across a nearby counter confirm this. It's a small lobby, glass doors separating us from a huge motorway, hazy in the afternoon sun. I pick myself up out of the dent I seem to have formed in the metallic floor and walk, somewhat groggy, over to the counter where I ask the girl a very simple question.
"Excuse me, but can you tell me where I am?"
"You're in the hotel foyer, sir," she says, stubbing out a skinny cigarette.
It's the kind of 'sir' you say when what you really mean is 'idiot'. Which I suppose is fair enough. I think about feeling insulted but figure it's not really the time or the place. Besides, I’m a pretty tough guy to insult. Someone says something mean about me and they’re wrong, so what? If they’re right and I get upset it just means I've been lying to myself and they shattered the illusion. I call that a learning curve. I regroup and try again.
"The foyer, thanks, I'd figured. Um… which hotel, exactly?"
Blank stare.
"This is the Premier Inn, sir."
"Ah, gotcha. Thanks." I turn away, checking my pockets for either a room key or any slim sense of comprehension of how I've fallen asleep in the flat above my bookshop and woken up here. I settle for growing confusion. I turn back. "Um, which Premier Inn exactly?"
"You're at Stoke-on-Trent Services sir, on the M6."
"Thank you so much. Okay, well, see you later."
I wander out of the hotel into the brisk Autumn air and try to work out what the hell is going on, and why there's a faint burning smell. I fail and, at a loss for anything better to do, jump in a cab to the station where I catch the next train back to London.