​Be careful what you wish for

Who in the hell designed the lighting for this godforsaken dilapidated pile?

I have to walk all the way across to the switch I now no longer need to illuminate the evilly shadowed horror film set of a landing I have just negotiated to get to the toilet. Flicking it on anyway, I turn to see my exasperation rewarded by the technicolour glory of the coat hook that almost gouged my eye, the disembowelling handrail, the shuddering cobwebs and the jutting base of a wood-wormed grandfather clock which took my toes, prisoner. I note the switch for the bathroom is outside the room in a bid to stop electrocution but what false sense of security is this after my journey to get here?

I leave both lights on.

Returning in a sulk; this is not romantic.

The four poster bed looks like it would turn against me softly suffocating my last breath in velvet folds.

You are laughing, teasing.

Do I seem churlish?

I don't mean to be, darling, it's just my age dictates clean lines and an ensuite, so I do not even have to think about leaving the room.

You must understand; when you have to put all your clothes back on to venture into the gloom? Only to have your foot wrangled in the dark, by an antique timepiece. It kind of kills the mood.

I promise I've got over my period drama phase.

Can we stay at the Hyatt next time?