My ultimate fantasy takes place in a hotel room. I pad down a quiet corridor, the silence only broken by the trundle and click of the wheelie case I drag behind me. I open a heavy door, throw the case to the floor, strip down to my underwear, hurl myself onto the bed … and that’s it. Some versions of the fantasy involve a family-sized bag of barbecue Kettle Chips. In others I turn on the television and discover a channel that is running a back-to-back viewing marathon of Grand Designs. That’s probably the best one.
There’s nothing nicer than being sealed into your own secure, private space, Swiss-rolled into fresh, clean bed linen, while you watch a pair of idiots borrowing millions of pounds to live in a leaky caravan on a building site.
There are few experiences more luxurious than being able to reach a flushing toilet within seconds of leaving your bed
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