Part of me feels my time would be better spent writing about Iran, but it's probably best I leave that to the better-informed and focus on what I'm good at: complaining about my own, lesser trials.
Yesterday, I became a true consultant. Not because I finally cracked the mystery of the perfect powerpoint slide, but because I too experienced the joys of setting the alarm before what can reasonably be called "morning", having your fourth cup of coffee before 8am and trying to make a hotel room your home.
Which brings me to what I want to complain about: friendly but over-priced, badly designed hotels.
My current establishment is one of those places that tries too hard, with marble and gold fittings a-gogo, and a bathroom decked out in mirrors so that you can watch yourself pee from 25 different angles at once. But it falls very short on a few essentials. For example, the wardrobe could easily fit two dozen ballgowns, but has only one shelf, that I can only reach by standing on a chair. The lights are controlled by a snazzy one-touch-button gadget, which means you can't turn on the reading lamp without turning on the 10 glaring spotlights in the ceiling as well. Sort of defeats the purpose of a reading lamp, if you ask me. But what really takes the biscuit is that this 5-star hotel has somehow managed to be the only location in all of London without any cell-phone reception of any kind, anywhere.
I even tried wandering around the back staircase in my pyjamas, waving my blackberry above my head like a mobile antenna on speed. I probably looked a bit silly.