I checked in, was given my room key by an efficient and polite young lady wearing the reddest lipstick I’d ever seen. Then, pulling my holdall behind me, I walked past a white grand piano with a man in a tuxedo playing a beautiful melancholy tune. I paused for a moment to listen and admire a decadent flower display set on a round oak table. This hotel was definitely going to suit me. My nerves were feeling less tattered already. After alighting the elevator at level three, I headed down a long, lean corridor. It had a startling bottle-green carpet and portraits of kings and queens hanging between every door. I found room three-sixty and slotted in the keycard. Nothing. The little red light stayed red. I tried it again. Still nothing. “Bugger,” I muttered, setting my holdall to one side so I could concentrate on the job at hand. I eased the keycard in slower, making sure it was the right way round and had time to be read by whatever obstinate scanner lurked inside the lock. Still nothing.
