18 November 2027
Thursday. A guest rang ahead to ask whether my locker was cramped. I have not been so insulted since the word copycat.
My locker is cold. It is dark, at times, and the hooks are not for hanging hats. But it is not cramped. Nobody crawls into anything at my table, nobody squeezes through a gap, nobody lies down in a box. That sort of thing is U.’s department, and he is welcome to it.
The management, for once, takes my side in public: they recommend my dinner for guests who dislike tight spaces, guests who are expecting and guests who find stairs and crawling a trial. I walk my guests upright from locker to table, the way civilised people should move.
I should be honest, since this is my private diary: the lights do go out, and something may make you jump. That is atmosphere, not architecture. Anybody worried should speak to the gamesmasters before the door closes; they are very good at listening.
The guest booked. She said the room felt enormous. I have written that on a card and propped it against the oven thermometer.
— B., your host
