The director

I have a rather bad allergy to feathers – something which seems, bizarrely, to throw even the best of hotels into utter confusion. That was certainly the case at one of our holiday hotels – a well-renowned, luxurious place that seemed simply incapable of swapping out feather pillows and duvet for substitutes that wouldn’t stop me breathing in the night.

As the place was well-known for its film festival, I rather imagined how a famous director might deal with the matter: waiting until his bedding was finally changed to his satisfaction, then whipping the maid soundly with his b‎elt before forcing himself on her from behind.

Of course, my mind wandered further from that – wondering how many wannabe starlets had been abused in our suite: made to strip in the living room ‘as part of the audition’. Inspected. Touched. Found to be wet. Grabbed by the hair and pulled into the bedroom, thrown onto the bed and used…