Posh Sister finds ‘Crum’ of five star comfort after prison break

Part two of the Posh Sister in Belfast 2017 and, having bravely put up with only a four star hotel experience on the Sunday night, the Posh One was looking forward to some ‘ deserved’ luxury at our five star accommodation on Monday afternoon. But before all that, it was time for a tour of Crumlin Road prison.

The Husband and I had been in the prison (some would say we still are) in 2012 after it was bought, but before it was closed for renovations to turn it into a tourist attraction. Having visited the city a number of times in the past, I felt it was about the only thing left to do with the Posh Sister. If nothing else, it would give her a buck, as they say in Dundalk.

When I emailed her last month to tell her about the prison tour I’d booked for us, she replied: ‘ A prison? Are we getting tattoos as well?’ We weren’t of course, but she obviously put it out of her mind until the week before we went, when at my house, the sister and the Posh Husband were talking about the forthcoming trip to Belfast.

‘She says you’re taking her to the Maze?’ asked the Posh Husband, somewhat confused at the proposed itinerary. I looked at the Posh Sister. Long Kesh I think you mean, I reminded him, and told him that no, we are not able to get into that site and we are going instead to Crumlin Road. The Posh Sister thought for a moment. ‘Who are we seeing there?’ she wondered, unfortunately for her, aloud. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Who are we visiting there?’

And right there, is the difference between the Posh Sister and I. She pays no regard to what any of the lesser people are saying and she also thinks, and doesn’t question can I remind you, that I would be taking her into a prison for a visit; that I would know someone in prison. She didn’t even blink.

It was only when we were in the suitably grim surroundings of ‘ The Crum’ that some of the Chanel sheen began to slip off her perfectly made-up face. The tour guide, a very nice English man who obviously had more experience outside the bars than behind them, told us all the terrible statistics and covered very well the 200 year history of the place. By the time we left, the sister was suitably horrified. I secretly smiled a number of times as she recounted back to me all the terrible things we had seen, including the execution room in all its unadorned, unstinting, roped realism.

The time had come then for the five star treat. Having got ourselves lost on the way round to the hotel, the Posh Sister was in no mood for messing when we landed at the reception. Having endured the low class experience of four star the night before, she smiled haughtily when the receptionist informed us that we had been ‘upgraded’ to a suite. I was just delighted and near kissed the woman behind the desk.

There was a porter who carried our suitcases into the lift and when we reached the third floor, the door was opened into what I like to now think of as Paradise. Two king size beds, a walk in rain shower that was the size of the Posh Sister’s kitchen, a sofa, two TVs, a dressing room, five windows and, to the Posh Sister’s particular delight, organic green tea and all the accompaniments.

I stood in the doorway with the jaw hitting the floor, while the Posh Sister looked around and declared, after a tense moment, that she was satisfied with the accommodation, which, she said, ‘is nothing more than we deserve’.

I sipped a freshly ground coffee while she fussed over the green tea and said that I had never seen anything like it. It was the most amazing place I’d ever stayed, and it was completely unforgettable. The Posh Sister never fails to miss a trick, though. ‘It’s great, of course, nothing more than we deserve, but it’s your fault we are only staying her one night’.