Confessional

What the hotel receptionist really thinks about you

I WORK on the front desk of a large five-star seaside hotel on the South Coast. By the end of the summer holiday, I’m exhausted.

The guests who grumble most are always American. My heart sinks when they check in because I know they’ll expect 24-hour personal service. One complained at 4am because the kitchen was closed, while a Texan lady wanted to pay a fortune to have the pool to herself for a week, and couldn’t believe it when I said that wasn’t possible.

The nicest guests are the ones who are away for a big celebration. One man was celebrating his 90th and his whole family congregated from across the world to be here — we upgraded his room and he was so grateful I nearly cried. Recently, we had a sleepwalker — a middle-aged woman got out of the lift in a vest and pants, went over to the lobby and stood there. Luckily, I recognised her, called her room and her mortified husband came to get her.

The ones who make me laugh are teenagers. They’re always in a massive sulk about being on holiday with their parents, but by day two they’ve found other sulky teens and by the end of the week they’re frantically adding their new mates to social media and crying because they won’t see each other again.