Anything from the minibar?

Manchester, United Kingdom

Imagine the scene. You will know it well; the exasperating hotel check-out. There I was, stood side-by-side with many hopefuls, each trying to be served first while pretending not to be in a hurry. I would shortly be headed to my London-bound train, my fellow receptioneers no doubt had their own agenda. All I had to do was pay the extras, as my hosts were taking care of the remainder.

The reception clerk, a cheery Jamaican with a half-dreadlock-half not-so-sure-what-to-call-it hairstyle, was swaying rhythmically from side to side as he inspected the screen before him in an almost Holmes-like way. Clearly, I thought, he had a sense of rhythm and would perhaps be more in his comfort zone in the 24-hour club immediately across the road that was still emitting bass music. Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thumpety, thump.

“Hey Man!” the Jamaican exclaimed with the globe’s broadest smile, white teeth shining brilliantly as he threw back his head, laughed briefly and pointed to something on the screen before him. “Mmmm…let me check,” he added, smile now gone. He leaned forward to inspect whatever it was more closely.

I looked each side of me. It was one of those long reception desks that goes on seemingly forever but that is probably no more than ten metres long in reality. My cheery chap was the only one at his post. The remaining five computer terminals lay unmanned. To my right were four couples waiting their turn, although not putting on a very good pretence of patience. To my left was an angry-looking businessman, I would bet from Holland, in one of those posh, shiny, navy blue suits that had been pressed within an inch of its existence. The Dutchman, if that is what he was, brushed the tiniest hair from the front of his left shoulder with the back of his right hand and started to tut-tut annoyingly. “Come on! Come on!” I could hear him think.

So I was not alone, that was for sure. What was also for sure was that those gathered either side of me were now all ears. No one could have missed the antics of the cheery Jamaican. As his smile vanished, it was replaced by a sterner expression. He leaned forward, half whispering conspiratorially. As he leaned, so everyone at reception leaned, too.

“Anything from the minibar?” came the query.

“No,” I replied.

“Sorry, man. Maybe you didn’t hear. I wasn’t speaking very loudly, was I? I’ll try again. Anything from the minibar?”

“Nothing.”

“Come one, man,” came the Jamaican reply. “A-n-y-t-h-i-n-g f-r-o-m t-h-e m-i-n-i-b-a-r?” This time it was a shout. So loud in fact that not only did I take two steps back, but so did my fellow receptioneers. I glanced behind me, more to avoid falling over than to see what was going on. One glance showed me that the Jamaican now had the attention of the entire reception area, as far as the concierge and beyond. I was pretty sure I also saw an elderly couple passing by on the pavement outside stop and walk towards the hotel’s glass revolving doors in order to get a better look and listen.

“I’ve told you already,” I repeated. “No, nyet, nein, and whatever other language you can dream of. I took nothing from the minibar. In fact, it took me the best part of 24 hours to find out where it was.”

“Well that’s not what it says here, man. According to yonder computer screen,” he gave a shaky point with his forefinger, “you took something from the bottom shelf of the minibar door.”

“What?”

“Yep. It says here you used an intimate set.”

By now the other receptioneers were leaning well forward; one couple was actually leaning right across the desk to get a better view and the Dutchman had long ago lost interest in any remaining hairs on his clothing.

“Inti-what?”

“Inti-mate, man. You know, that thing on the bottom shelf of the door. Purple colour. If you look at the label,” he was beginning to become truly enthusiastic at this point, “you have those especially sensitive cond…”

“Yes, yes, yes,“ I interrupted, much to the disappointment of the other receptioneers who had now taken to almost lying on the desk to get a decent view. Around me the hotel had fallen completely silent. I could hear barely a shuffle. It seemed that even the traffic on the road outside had come to a halt. For sure, the elderly couple were now pressed firmly against the glass of the revolving door, the man with his left ear, the woman with her nose. They were trying hard not to miss even a syllable. Reception was now manifestly the focus of global attention.

“But I still didn’t use one,” I added. I was beginning to be both irritated and not a little embarrassed.

“Well it says here you did,” replied the clerk.

“I didn’t.”

“You did. Do you want me to ask my manager?”

I looked first to my left, then to my right. The receptioneers were all ears, tiny half-disguised smiles on their faces. For a moment I thought I saw a miniscule wink from the Dutchman. I certainly saw the tiniest nod of what I took to be encouragement.

“Go on then,” I replied, “let’s find another person to say that I’m a pervert.”

The clerk barely had time to mutter, “OK…” when a tall, distinguished individual emerged as if by magic from a rear office. I look at the mirrored glass behind the Jamaican. It had to be one way.

“Any problem here, sir?” said Mr Authority, in a tone that indicated his clearly senior position. He wore reading glasses at the very tip of a broad but pointed nose and was clean shaven. In fact, he was so clean shaven that I wondered if the poor chap was actually capable of growing any facial hair at all. He looked first at me, then glanced at the screen. Realisation appeared to dawn. “Ah!” he declared, “one of those. Mmm…yes…we’ve had this before.”

Here we go, I thought, bracing myself for a lecture about what guests get up to behind closed hotel doors, particularly after a hard night’s clubbing. I waited to be told that everyone routinely denied using the items on the bottom shelf, items that for some reason had to be kept cold. Come to think of it, can you really imagine one of those beasties on your anatomy when it has come straight from the freezer? Mind boggling, I would suggest, and definitely not physiologically sensible. Certainly not for those seeking comfort and one sure way to propagate infertility.

Then the unexpected happened. Mr Authority glanced down, hesitated for a mere nanosecond, and then allowed his fingers to flash in a blur across the computer keyboard – click, click, clunckety-click, return. He looked back up towards me. “All done, sir. No charge.” Then he leaned forward towards me, so far that I thought he might effect an acrobatic cartwheel over the reception desk, rather like a gymnasium’s horse, and end up on the floor by my feet.

Mr Authority was whispering now. “But I bet you had a careful look, eh? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge?” The air of command had now vanished, replaced by the playful schoolboy. Meanwhile the Jamaican had returned to hip swinging, in time with the hotel’s canned and outdated music.

“No, I didn’t have a careful look as you imply. I saw it. You can’t miss the wretched thing. And yes, I moved it to see what it contained. Nothing more than a glance.”

“Well that’ll be it, sir,” came Mr Authority’s reply. “Pressure sensors, you see. Pick anything up, move it the tiniest bit, and ‘ping’ you are charged automatically down here. It’s the only way, sir. Otherwise they all escape without paying, especially when it comes to the... the... you know what I mean.”

And that was it. Almost as quickly as I had been made to feel no higher than a worm, my crushable ego began steadily to recover. “So is that it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” came the reply, although not from the Jamaican, who was still swinging smoothly from foot to foot. That man is definitely in the wrong job, I thought.

“Thank you,” I replied, turned on my heel and headed towards the revolving doors. As I twisted I could see the elderly couple guiltily start to make their way back to the pavement, leaving only the faintest smudges on the glass as evidence of their curiosity. It was time to make my escape. Anyway, the moment all around had heard my explanation, the moment I had been defined as clearly boring and that my room had not been the focus of unbridled passion for the previous 24 hours, the receptioneers, including the Dutchman, the concierge, the remaining hotel staff, postman, delivery man and as far as I could tell even the hotel dog, instantly returned to their normal duties. It was as if my embarrassment had never happened. As if my discomfiture had never existed.

My lesson? Never again will I take anything from a minibar, even just for a moment. Never again, for that matter, will I stay in that particular hotel. Big Brother has got you, you see, even if you think you are alone. Work on the basis that no hotel can keep a secret, especially at reception, and especially if that secret is to be found on the bottom shelf of a minibar.