Dear Hotels, we need to talk

I love hotels. I really do.

I love arriving somewhere new, dropping my suitcase and having absolutely no responsibility for cleaning the bathroom, changing the bedding or working out what we’re having for dinner.

But sometimes I walk into a beautiful hotel room and immediately think:

Did anybody actually stay in this before you opened the hotel?

Because it can look incredible in photographs. Gorgeous lighting. Beautiful finishes. Perfectly plumped cushions.

Then actual humans arrive.

With clothes. Chargers. Toiletries. Wet hair. Caffeine requirements.

And suddenly you realise the room has been designed for the brochure, not the human.

So hotels, with enormous affection…

We need to talk.

The four sacred hangers

You’ve sold me a family room.

It sleeps five people.

We’re staying for fourteen nights.

You have provided…

Four hangers.

What exactly is the plan here?

Are we operating a rotation system? Does one family member have to remain naked at all times?

And while we’re here, could we have some drawers? A luggage rack? A shelf that isn’t 30cm from the floor?

If you’re selling rooms for week-long and fortnight-long holidays, please design the storage for people staying a week or fortnight.

WHO APPROVED THIS?

Bonus points for putting the full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door, then positioning the furniture so the door only opens 75 degrees.

I now have to physically get into the wardrobe amongst the four sacred hangers to see my outfit from eleven inches away.

Actually, perhaps that’s why you only gave me four.

You knew I’d need the room.

Give me somewhere to plug the bloody straighteners in

Sockets.

I don’t need hundreds.

I just need them where human beings actually use electrical things.

A socket beside each side of the bed would be lovely, because apparently both people in a couple can now own mobile phones.

Revolutionary, I know.

But my personal favourite is the dressing table with a lovely mirror…

and no plug anywhere near it.

So now I’m straightening my hair on the floor beside the minibar using my phone camera as a mirror because the nearest socket and the nearest reflective surface are in different postcodes.

Interior designers have a technical term for this.

Fucking annoying.

Bathroom designers, you’re next

It’s 3am.

I need a wee.

I require enough illumination to locate the toilet without sustaining an injury.

I do not require the bathroom illuminated to a standard suitable for minor surgery.

One switch and suddenly I’m undergoing a retinal interrogation while the extractor fan sounds like it’s preparing for take-off.

And because the bathroom door is frequently made from frosted glass, congratulations - the entire family is awake too.

Low-level warm night lighting exists.

Separately switched extraction exists.

Please use them.

While we’re here, could I also have somewhere to put my wash bag?

You’ve created a beautiful minimalist vanity with enough available surface area for approximately one pocket-sized tub of Vaseline.

The bathroom photographs beautifully.

Unfortunately, I’ve brought toiletries.

And why is everything tiny?

Hotel towels.

Hotel dressing gowns.

Tea cups.

Apparently we’re rationing fabric and crockery.

I don’t need a hotel dressing gown to make me look glamorous.

I just need both sides of it to meet.

If tying the belt requires me to decide whether I’m covering my boobs or maintaining plausible deniability about what’s happening below the waist, this isn’t relaxation.

And then there’s the morning tea.

I am British.

Tea is not a decorative welcome amenity.

It is part of the morning boot sequence.

So why have you provided a cup capable of holding approximately three mouthfuls?

I need enough caffeine to transform me from unresponsive hotel-room corpse into woman capable of locating the breakfast buffet.

Your tiny porcelain thimble isn’t going to get us there.

And two teabags, two coffee sachets and four microscopic UHT milks for a family staying a fortnight?

Are supplies arriving by helicopter?

This isn’t about making rooms more luxurious

That’s the thing.

I don’t need more marble.

I don’t need seventeen decorative cushions.

I don’t need another moodily lit alcove containing a vase nobody is allowed to touch.

I need someone to stand in the finished room and ask:

“How is a real person actually going to use this?”

Where will they charge their phone?

Where will they dry their hair?

Where will five people put their clothes?

Can somebody use the bathroom at 3am without recreating sunrise?

And most importantly…

Can I please have a mug containing enough tea to get me through breakfast?

Good hotel design doesn’t have to be expensive.

It just needs to work for the humans staying in it.

And hotels, if you’re reading this thinking:

“Fine then, smartarse. Find us a better solution.”

I’d genuinely love to.

Just put a plug beside the mirror before I get there.