So let me tell you my favourite hotel story from the summer of 2013.
I was having breakfast in the pub attached to the Premier Inn near Ormskirk on the morning of Mags' funeral in July. And for obvious reasons, wasn't at my most chirpy.
I also wasn't feeling particularly hungry, despite having gone for a run, but thought it best to fill my face as it might be a while before I'd scoff again.
The thing about a Premier Inn breakfast is that, whilst it is all-you-can-eat, it's not a buffet job and you have to place an order.
When the waiter appeared, I excused myself before asking if it might be acceptable for me to have three sausages.
"I wouldn't normally have three, I feel like a bit of a pig - not that pigs eat sausages. Is that OK?" I bumbled, pathetically.
"Three sausages is nothing sir," came the polite reply.
"Really?" I bumbled on.
"Oh yes, sir. Not long ago, a gentleman ordered 35 rashers of bacon."
"Seriously?! You're joking?" I replied, now much more animated.
"No sir, it's true. I took the order myself."
"And what did you do?"
"We served them to him, on one big plate."
"My word. And did he eat them all?"
"I have no idea, sir. I couldn't bring myself to watch."
Had the bar been open, I would definitely have bought my new waiter friend a pint.