I love a good hotel.
I like the impersonal solace of a well-run hotel.
I like leaving my battered shoes out in a tray, and they are returned an hour later, polished to an apple-like shine.
I like the warm towels in a vast, wintery bathroom.
I like that the hot water for my cup noodles comes in a pompous silver pot (borne by a very large matron on a pompous silver tray).
I like the fruit basket, and eating the fruits therein with a knife and napkin.
I like the flowers.
I love calling up for a massage and doing this on the floor with the BBC on.
I love not getting calls, only messages from the concierge.
I like the IHT that I left hanging on the door laid out on the bureau later.
I love eating dinner in the room in pyjamas, and then sleeping immediately.
I like to send shirts for pressing, and then they appear in the cupboard, when I’m out, in crisp plastic covers.
I love that the sheets are changed everyday. (I like this very much.)
I like the blackness of the night only achievable in hotels, and the heavy silence when the door closes. (I wish I could shut the world out like this every day).
I love room service (I really, really like this).
I love writing postcards out and dropping them off at the reception.
I love eating breakfast in bed (I only wish I didn’t have to get out of bed to open the door).
Well, I love doing most things in bed.
I love watching horror movies in a bathrobe when I’m supposed to be out at a party.
I love calling up for stuff.
I love leaving the room in a mess and then, when I come back, housekeeping has made everything immaculate again.
Photo: Tim Walker