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. Of course, they offer you everything else. You can have a million complicated luxuries, from underwater shiatsu massage to every cable TV channel in Europe and a sound feed connecting them to the bathroom so you don’t miss the German version of Trisha as you’re brushing your teeth. But if you dare to ask for a bowl of fruit or a pair of curtains that meet in the middle a hotel will not take pity on you.
The more luxurious the establishment the more complex and baffling are the torments. Lying in my hotel bath in Brighton the week before at the Labour conference, for example, I suddenly realised there was something really odd about the water. I had turned it up to maximum and was attempting to boil myself into a nice state of oblivion.
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