George V

Brief: to render/recall/conjure a setting, and describe an inappropriate character. The scene is described in the first paragraph, while the second paragraph describes a character who is completely out of place in the scene. You're not meant to write anything about what's going on in the character's head or why they are there - must be all about description. Limited to a single page of double-spaced size 12 Times New Roman font.


There is no hotel foyer in Europe that is as grand as the foyer of the George V. To enter, you leave behind the traffic and bustle of a busy street and walk through silently revolving doors. Here and there across its marbled expanse, blue and gold baroque chairs are arranged in groupings around gilded tables. Copies of classical Roman statues are placed against columns, and mirrors reflect the Starship Enterprise-sized chandelier. Two immaculately groomed clerks stand typing into hidden computers behind the reception desk. Both could be models from Vogue. With meticulous competence, they have mastered the skill of being able to leave the less sure-footed patron wondering whether he has been treated with ironical mockery or the utmost professional congeniality. The muted notes of a Chopin Nocturne drift from a plushly carpeted lounge leading off the foyer, but no one appears to be listening as the pianist works through the evening's programme. He looks bored.

Suddenly, the entrance doors slip into motion and an old lady shuffles in. She is dragging a small tartan cart that is filled to bursting. Around the outsides of the cart, a haphazard system of elasticated cords binds several plastic bags and a spare pair of shoes that has been repaired with duct tape. The two doormen immediately stop their conversation and stand to attention as she passes. A grubby headscarf is pulled low over most of her face, but her protruding chin can be seen working ceaselessly as if she is chewing on a particularly stubborn piece of gristle. Her heels clack occasionally as she moves in tiny steps across the marble floor. Only the guests in the foyer pause to watch her steady progress. A young Russian-looking woman with a malevolent chihuahua nestled in her fur coat clicks her tongue in annoyance and looks from her boyfriend to the reception clerks and back again for someone to do something. The clerks merely look up briefly and disinterestedly before turning back to their screens. The old lady reaches the bank of lifts at the far end of the foyer. Her bowed back strains as she reaches up to press the button. The lift arrives with an opulent ping, the doors slide open, she walks in, and is gone.