Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct my mistakes in the first part of my short story "A letter of complaint.
Hotel Paradise
Proprietor Mr B. Blair
Bristol on Sea
Dear Sir,
I have to tell you that neither my wife nor I are people who like to complain, but what we had experienced during our stay in your hotel was certainly the worst in our lives. We had come to your hotel with the wish to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary. Forty years ago, we had spent the most beautiful week in the same hotel, and we had great hopes we were going to enjoy our stay again. Alas, how wrong we were!
We arrived on the 6th of January and were met by the receptionist, Mr John, who gave us our key and showed us our room on the first floor. The room seemed to be fine, clean and airy. We opened our luggage, put our clothes in the wardrobe, made ourselves coffee, and sat for a while talking. I felt tired and lay down on a bed to get some rest. I stretched out, and to my astonishment, I noticed that my feet were dangling over the edge of the mattress. I could not believe what I saw and attributed this sensation to the fresh sea air, to which I was not accustomed. I gave my wife a searching look, but she just shrugged her shoulders, without saying a word. I got off the bed, looked properly at it and could establish that the bed was at least 15 cm shorter than it should be. I can assure you that I am not a giant, just an average man in his sixties who does not differ significantly from other people. I have to admit that the shortness of the bed made me angry and curious at the same time. I have visited all kinds of hotels in my life; some were first class and other real holes, but I have never slept in such a short bed.
I rushed downstairs and told the receptionist that I wanted to see the hotel manager, immediately. He left his desk and went inside the hotel searching for his boss. About ten minutes later, a blond, stocky man came up and shook hands with me. His handshake was strong, his blue eyes piercing, and his demeanour was somewhat intimidating. He introduced himself as Mr Schulz and had a strange accent. He listened to my complaint, looking right into my eyes and not blinking once, which made me nervous. He followed me upstairs, stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, staring at the bed for a while. He then took out a tape measure and stretched it from one end of the mattress to the other. “184 cm,” he said. “Unbelievable. How on earth did this thing end up in our hotel? Why didn’t anyone complain before?”
He apologised and told us that we would promtly get another room, on the second floor. Suddenly the lift was out of order and my wife and I had to carry our luggage upstairs. The room was really nice, even better than the previous one, and had a beautiful view, but when I lay down on the bed, I could feel an icy draught from the window. I got up and as soon as I came close to the pane, I noticed that the frame was rotten and full of holes, and the putty had dried out and cracked. It was even missing on some places. My heart sank and I looked at my wife, who rolled her eyes in response. Unwillingly, I called the reception and told Mr John about the problem, and he promised me to find Mr Schulz immediately. We had not waited more than a few minutes when Mr Schulz knocked at our door and strode towards the window. He glared at it, his short hair stood on end, and his face turned purple. He slammed his fist into his palm and shouted, “Vladimir, the lazy idiot! He should have repaired it weeks ago. He’ll pay for this!”
As we lugged our luggage up the stairs, (the lift was out of order again) we could hear Mr Schultz beating someone at the end of the corridor. We believe that person must have been Vladimir at whom Mr Schulz was so angry because of the window. We could clearly hear heavy blows hitting a body followed by Mr Schulz’s booming voice cursing the poor man and calling him all kinds of names, which I would rather omit to mention because they were so gross and rude. The man was certainly hurt because he was wailing, crying and pleading with Mr Schulz not to beat him, none of which had any effect on the irate manager, whose punches and kicking seemed to become more vicious.
TO BE CONTINUED
Hotel Paradise
Proprietor Mr B. Blair
Bristol on Sea
Dear Sir,
I have to tell you that neither my wife nor I are people who like to complain, but what we had experienced during our stay in your hotel was certainly the worst in our lives. We had come to your hotel with the wish to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary. Forty years ago, we had spent the most beautiful week in the same hotel, and we had great hopes we were going to enjoy our stay again. Alas, how wrong we were!
We arrived on the 6th of January and were met by the receptionist, Mr John, who gave us our key and showed us our room on the first floor. The room seemed to be fine, clean and airy. We opened our luggage, put our clothes in the wardrobe, made ourselves coffee, and sat for a while talking. I felt tired and lay down on a bed to get some rest. I stretched out, and to my astonishment, I noticed that my feet were dangling over the edge of the mattress. I could not believe what I saw and attributed this sensation to the fresh sea air, to which I was not accustomed. I gave my wife a searching look, but she just shrugged her shoulders, without saying a word. I got off the bed, looked properly at it and could establish that the bed was at least 15 cm shorter than it should be. I can assure you that I am not a giant, just an average man in his sixties who does not differ significantly from other people. I have to admit that the shortness of the bed made me angry and curious at the same time. I have visited all kinds of hotels in my life; some were first class and other real holes, but I have never slept in such a short bed.
I rushed downstairs and told the receptionist that I wanted to see the hotel manager, immediately. He left his desk and went inside the hotel searching for his boss. About ten minutes later, a blond, stocky man came up and shook hands with me. His handshake was strong, his blue eyes piercing, and his demeanour was somewhat intimidating. He introduced himself as Mr Schulz and had a strange accent. He listened to my complaint, looking right into my eyes and not blinking once, which made me nervous. He followed me upstairs, stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, staring at the bed for a while. He then took out a tape measure and stretched it from one end of the mattress to the other. “184 cm,” he said. “Unbelievable. How on earth did this thing end up in our hotel? Why didn’t anyone complain before?”
He apologised and told us that we would promtly get another room, on the second floor. Suddenly the lift was out of order and my wife and I had to carry our luggage upstairs. The room was really nice, even better than the previous one, and had a beautiful view, but when I lay down on the bed, I could feel an icy draught from the window. I got up and as soon as I came close to the pane, I noticed that the frame was rotten and full of holes, and the putty had dried out and cracked. It was even missing on some places. My heart sank and I looked at my wife, who rolled her eyes in response. Unwillingly, I called the reception and told Mr John about the problem, and he promised me to find Mr Schulz immediately. We had not waited more than a few minutes when Mr Schulz knocked at our door and strode towards the window. He glared at it, his short hair stood on end, and his face turned purple. He slammed his fist into his palm and shouted, “Vladimir, the lazy idiot! He should have repaired it weeks ago. He’ll pay for this!”
As we lugged our luggage up the stairs, (the lift was out of order again) we could hear Mr Schultz beating someone at the end of the corridor. We believe that person must have been Vladimir at whom Mr Schulz was so angry because of the window. We could clearly hear heavy blows hitting a body followed by Mr Schulz’s booming voice cursing the poor man and calling him all kinds of names, which I would rather omit to mention because they were so gross and rude. The man was certainly hurt because he was wailing, crying and pleading with Mr Schulz not to beat him, none of which had any effect on the irate manager, whose punches and kicking seemed to become more vicious.
TO BE CONTINUED
