The Five-Star Hotel Guests

Orna Mulchay on people we all know

Orna Mulchay on people we all know

Kay has managed to get a knockdown winter weekend rate at The Palace, and by chatting up the man at reception who, it turns out, is from Castlebar, they've got an upgrade to an executive suite with views on two sides, a huge basket of fruit that will do for lunch and enough headed notepaper to drop lines to several friends overseas.

"Well if this is what executives get, I don't think much of it," says Kay, who has very little use for high speed Internet access since she can hardly manage Tesco.ie, and who has no intention of allowing Colm to explore the movie channels on the plasma screen TV in case they're pure porn. No, she's far more interested in the bathroom accessories, and is doing a mental tot of what can be taken and what, sadly, has to be left behind. Obviously bathrobes have to stay - she still has nightmares about the time Colm had to unpack in reception to give back the very nice ones in Cyprus - but the fluffy slippers are fair game since they couldn't possibly use them again, and they're useful things if you ever have to spend a night in hospital. Bath gels, soaps, shampoos, nail files and shoe shiners go straight into the suitcase so there'll be a whole new set this evening. They're so nicely packaged she could nearly give them as stocking fillers. Tempting thing is there's a housekeeper's trolley parked outside their door, groaning with stuff, but it's probably covered by CCTV.

Vital, of course, not to even open the mini bar, where the crisps are €5! Mean not to have left them a snipe of champagne, especially as they are in a suite, says Colm, who is inclined to get truculent in expensive hotels and is already calling for the manager as he can't work out how to use the multi-nozzle shower and can't believe there's no trouser press for his slacks. Things improve in the bar after a couple of cocktails (€42), some exquisite hand-made crisps and a chat with the waitress, who is built on goddess lines and surely must be cold with so little on. The whole place is crawling with staff in grey suits and ear-pieces, and it's a bit disconcerting the way they keep grinning at you and opening doors wherever you go, and which one do you tip and how much? Kay nearly faints when she sees the man next to them at dinner leaving €70 for the maitre d', and though they palm him €20, it doesn't get them a window table at breakfast next morning.

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Kay draws the line at making sandwiches from the breakfast rolls and cold meats - they're not Germans for God's sake - but she does slip a few of the miniature pots of jam into her handbag, just to have on the table when guests come to stay. So practical. Unfortunately, one leaks in her suitcase and destroys her suede evening shoes, so it wasn't such a good-value weekend after all.