(Editor's note: Drafted on Sunday night)
A charming and rather remote European village (which shall remain nameless) at dusk. A (still)young woman walks through the lobby of a sprawling hotel, her movements hampered by an impressive assortment of luggage strapped across her shoulders. Clutching her room key and "welcome package" in her hands, she climbs the stairs and finds the door marked 116. Behind it lies not the cramped cupboard she was expecting (this being the era of cost-cutting) but a large suite only slightly smaller than her appartment, complete with a separate living room area, a private balcony, and a guest toilet. Yes, a guest toilet. She thought it was weird too.
Tired, and probably more nervous than she would like to admit, the young woman quietly unpacks her bag, brushes her teeth and slips into bed. Tomorrow, she knows, she will put her big, bright smile on, approach the team-building tasks with a careful balance of humour and earnest dedication, and reveal rather too much personal information than is entirely suitable at BM. But tonight, she will sleep.