Taking the brass key from the barmaid, Harry lugged his case up the twisting flight of stairs. He felt he had been transported back half a century, to a time before his own birth, to a time of barren corridors, sparse lodgings and diminished, grey stalks of men.
As he pushed the door open, a wave of stale air engulfed him and he made a bee-line for the window, jiggling the pane until it rose unevenly on its perished sash. Perching his thin buttocks on the sill, Harry surveyed the room he had rented for the week, furnished with two single beds, and a dark brown wardrobe replete with scalloped art deco mirror.
Harry padded down to the bathroom, a wry smile of appreciation creasing his face as he recognised the pale green tiles, the heavy feet on the enamel bath and the naked bulbs. This would do very well.