A tale of a tub, you might say. A bathtub. Was it at the Park Lane, or the
Chesterfield? The Westbury? Brown's? You hear so many versions, it's
growing apocryphal in the telling. I believe those who say it was the
Portobello. A rockers' hangout -- very upmarket -- in Notting Hill. Stanley
Gardens, if my memory serves me.
	They booked in under some anonymous Mrs-and-Mrs name, because they are
oh-so-famous. She's that anorexically thin model, all hip bones and bulging
shaved pubis. Flatchested as a weedy schoolboy. Less famous this year. Last
year's model, eh? He's a toothy has-been (they're not even real teeth), an
ex-junkie Hollywood star of yesteryear, though they're both only in their
late twenties. Burned out, crazed people. Name recognition is all they
have, no talent to speak of, and it's caught up with them.
	Poor Rita! How was she to know? She'd only been working there as a
chambermaid for a couple of weeks. Didn't know the kinds of exploits
oh-so-famous people will get up to.
	They'd checked in, late afternoon, and turned the bedroom into a complete
sty in about ninety minutes flat. Clothes tossed everywhere, suitcases
open, fresh shopping bags scattered all over. Thousands of dollars in
impulse purchases. Food, empty glasses. Ashtrays overflowing. The bed
stripped to the lower sheets, the blankets and duvet piled in a corner.
Straps and ropes attached to the corners, to the headboard. More such
supplies dangling from an overflowing suitcase. Riding crops, belts,
vicious little clamps, a filthy and fragrant dildo littering the table. A
chair with a big wet stain. A discarded condom oozing on the bathroom
floor. Polaroids -- explicit and quite nasty -- drying on the dresser.
Discarded film packs and wrappers everywhere. They like the look of
themselves, these two. The only thing they've been careful about is their
stash of restorative powders and herbal smoking remedies. All well hidden.
Otherwise, anarchy.
	Clucking her disapproval, Rita begins to tidy up, trying not to look at
the filthy photos. Gets her air freshener spray from the cart. Oh, what
smells. Draws the curtains, cracks open a window for a few minutes. She
does the best she can. Should she make the bed? Yes, she decides. They've
gone out, who knows where? She finishes up, and even leaves them a mint on
the pillow, though what they'll do with it is anyone's guess.
	Where they went, as anyone of you could guess, is the bar downstairs, for
some quick refreshments. And where they are working hard on being thrown
out. The famous young lady is leaning on the bar, because her backside is
too sore to sit.
	Rita goes into the bathroom. "Oh Lord!" she says. What a mess! Towels,
more clothes. Mysterious stains and puddles. The tub, half-filled with what
seems to be urine. At least, bathwater, royally stained with it. She
wrinkles her nose at the acidic smell.
	"How dirty!" she splutters. "Where were they brought up!" Pulls the plug
and $3,000 worth of vintage champagne slowly gurgles away. How angry
they'll be, when they stagger back for that erotic pre-spanking dip.