Closing the glass door of my office, I told my assistant to sit down. She had just made a mess of my weekend away and I was about to let her have it with both barrels.
I’d asked her to find a boutique hotel for my 30th birthday, specifying a cosy place near a Michelin-starred restaurant with a four-poster bed.
What she found would have given Fawlty Towers a run for its money in terms of facilities and service. My then-husband and I did laugh about it – eventually – but at the time I decided it simply wasn’t good enough.
So poor
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