My mobile is flashing on the desk and showing a name from the contacts list who would ring only in an emergency. I pick up.
"It's me. Don't say anything, just listen. I'm locked in the lavatory of the %&*(()$!! Hotel, Harrogate. My friends are upstairs but they've turned their phones off and they'll be thinking I've died. Ring the hotel and get someone to come to rescue me."
I get straight on to it, explaining who I am, who the detainee is and what has happened. "I'm not joking, I'm afraid," I add.
Shortly afterwards all is well. I call the hotel again later to thank them, and the same receptionist admits that it isn't the first time it's happened. Tut tut. This isn't some bloomin' Travelodge on the A59, it's a vast Victorian pile of a place, built for the spa trade and now fitted out to accommodate conference delegates.
But like all such places where savonnerie and chintz predominate, the housekeeping is done on a shoestring and the maintenance is bodged until it becomes absolutely necessary to spend £1.99 at the local ironmonger on a new lock. Grrrrrr!
