I am admitted into a stunning courtyard, palm trees and everything, and justifiably thinking, "Brilliant. This is going to be brilliant." I had already purchased a suitably revolting bottle of white wine with which I hoped to christen what I was not sure would be the most fantastic room in all Rome, nay Christendom.
Iwas swiftly disabused of this fond dream when I was abruptly informed by a confused yet very angry sounding voice that I would have to lug my abundant and weighty pants up the last flight of stairs as, inexplicably, the lift just simply did not go that high. "Sorrysorrysorry" was my only (frankly pathetic) response, mortified as I was by my unexpected detour (although in retrospect, how the fuck was he to know?), but as I was fearing cardiac arrest, naturally my prevailing thought was "HELP ME YOU TOSSER". It soon became clear why he didn't.
Imagine, if you will, Mrs. Overall with a 'tache. Such was the vision which greeted me at the top of the stairs, subsequently hobbling painfully into the flat. It then, if you can believe it, took him a full hour to open the door to my room. That's right. An hour. Excruciatingly slowly, one by one he produced thousands of fucking keys, shakily tried them in the lock, and then muttered at each of them in a hurt voice as if (a) it was their fault, and (b) this would actually help. He disappeared altogether at one point (I presume to take a nap). It took a generous squirt of WD40 and a mightly thwack before the ancient portal finally yielded I am thanking my stars that it didn't simply crumble into a million pieces, Mr. Overall's response to which would presumably been to shake his head ruefully at it, then limp off for another nap.
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