Low life | 23 July 2011 | The Spectator

I asserted that my room was booked and paid for by the travel company organising my trip. Maarika, the lovely Estonian trainee receptionist, said the room was booked, yes, but not paid for. I insisted, she resisted, I gave way. I handed over my credit card and signed here, here and here. She handed over the card key to room 286 and said she hoped I would sleep well.

Only when I was standing in the tiny, not particularly clean room overlooking a noisy road junction did I realise that Maarika’s hope might have been sincere. It was 11 o’clock on Saturday night. Police and ambulance sirens blared more or less continuously. From every fourth car issued the boom, boom, boom of a boom box. The double glazing was old, cheap, badly fitted and useless. I was sober. Sleep would be difficult, if not impossible. I manoeuvred my wheeled suitcase back out of the door and returned with it down to the lobby.