Hotel du Lack

colditz

Due to a pathological fear of cheese, I’d have never have made it as a chef

Having failed a vast majority of my O-levels in 1973, my father took me to an industrial psychologist in Gloucester Place to establish which career I should pursue: Astronaut was out due to a morbid dread of flying; postman was never an option due to a teenage propensity to getting verrucae and the role of Prime Minister was already taken by Ted Heath – although I did hoard candles – handy during the three-day week power cuts.

At the psychologists I was given a series of tests: one was a list of hundred potential occupations, grouped in pairs. I had to choose one of the two.  One couple was bishop or miner?  This was a no-brainer as I don’t like getting dirty and as a choir-boy looked quite charming in cassock and surplice.

Lastly, I had an interview with the psychologist who, having analysed the results, and me assuming I’d be a shoo-in for the next Archbishop of Canterbury, suggested a career in hotel & catering.

I had immediate visions of running a hotel but suddenly realised I’d have to start at the bottom and wouldn’t have suited being dressed as a chambermaid – I haven’t got the legs.

And so, went into advertising – where you don’t have to wear a pinny – unless the client is particularly demanding.

So, what was room service’s loss became the world of conning people into buying something they really don’t want’s gain!

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave! Unless you don’t want your ten-bob deposit back!

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