Not quite getting away from it all

So when my friend, the Hack, invited the Teen and me away for a freebie weekend in Bath with her and the Boy – her wildly excited six-year-old – to write a review I jumped at the chance, not caring that we would be living the high life at a lower end motel-style hotel. OK, OK, it was Travelodge.

The hotel may be low budget but the chain brands itself as the “retailers of sleep” and frankly that is all we would really want after a marathon shopping spree punctuated with a mug of mulled wine or two.

After we checked in, we climbed two flights of stairs to reach the family room the Hack had organised, but saw that there was just one bed, in which four people were clearly supposed to sleep.

Restful, much?

Little did the staff know that the Teen had bailed out of the trip in favour of a house party, horse riding and a Saints match.

We traipsed downstairs to sort out a new room, but the 12-year-old receptionist could see no reference to the family room their PR girl had allegedly sorted, and with a nod to the Christmas Story, he told us there were no more rooms available at the inn. It was Black Friday after all.

He saw our faces fall and then smiled and told us he could put a “cot mattress” (yes, for babies) and a double duvet on the floor.

The Boy shook his head and told the man that he was six-and-a-half – far too old for sleeping on a baby mattress.

But that was our only option, unless we all bundled into bed together.

“Thank God the Teen didn’t come,” said the Hack. “I can see her face now.”

Hmmm... that scenario did not bear thinking about.

After feasting on Greek food and vodka, we investigated our sleeping arrangements, where the staff had made up a bed on the floor for Tom Thumb – it was thimble-sized.

And there was no hot water.

The next morning the hack woke me up with incessant scratching on her neck and shoulder.

“I have been bitten to death,” she whined.

“Hmmm, it could be a stray flea from the Dog.

“Even the fleas are desperate to leave my nightmare house,” I said, before she started to go on about mites or something.

Despite everything we were delighted to reach the hotel later that evening after battling through crowds of enormous proportions.

Footsore and famished, we flumped into chairs in the bar while the Boy used a just-purchased Poundland tinsel string to rig up a tollgate and charge hotel guests for the privilege of passing through.

But when our food arrived, cold and sort of unidentifiable, the Hack sent it back in a strop.

“This whole trip has been nothing short of a Bushtucker Trial,” she moaned. “I’m sure Lenny Henry didn’t have this problem.”

“Well he wouldn’t would he,” I pointed out. “Because he deals with the Premier Inn.”

Readers who submit articles must agree to our terms of use. The content is the sole responsibility of the contributor and is unmoderated. But we will react if anything that breaks the rules comes to our attention. If you wish to complain about this article, contact us here