Hotels frighten me. I can only approach them armed with industrial-strength earplugs, a box of teabags, a jar of Marmite, an orthopaedic pillow, a towelling robe and slippers that fit, a large bag of apples, some bottles of mineral water, a scented candle and a DVD boxset of Columbo.
‘What the hell have you got in this case?’ asked a colleague as he helped me out of the taxi at the hotel where we were staying for the Tory conference in Manchester.
‘Too many outfits,’ I said. Because I really didn’t want to list the sad collection of home comforts I had packed in a bid to get myself through the next four days without throwing a tantrum at reception.
Why does it have to be this way? Why, in the era of great advancement in which we live, can a hotel not be constructed that allows for a night’s sleep, a nice cup of tea, a piece of toast and Marmite, and a bottle of mineral water that doesn’t cost £6.
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