My initial impression of the Gateway House was of a sanctuary in a storm: as an oasis appears to a thirsty traveller in a desert, the uncurtained windows, rust-stained concrete and low rumble of a diesel generator heralded refuge from a rain-soaked trudge from the hire car drop off point, and I gratefully stumbled, dripping, into the brightly-lit lobby. The brutalist style of the architecture was wonderfully echoed in the severity of the welcome I received at reception. Despite the matriarch giving me the nagging feeling that I had been slightly bad-mannered by walking up to the reception desk at all, and exuding a rather confusing reluctance to hand over a room key, she did offer me a chauffeur-driven car to the terminal the next day (a mere five hours before my flight!) so we parted on good terms. The corridors continue the post-apocalyptic theme of the exterior, with deserted staircases, peeling paint and flickering fluorescent lighting complimenting the creaking of the ablution doors. I was worried that this would just be a transient experience on the way to my room, but to my relief I had a window onto the corridor and the door to the only working bathroom was just opposite my bedroom, which meant I had an immersive dystopian sound and light show throughout the night. Unfortunately the concierge was unavailable, so I had to do without any guidance on the cultural delights of the local area, but luckily the hotel provided hours of diverting activity in house, with games such as ‘Name That Stain’ and ‘Hot Water Hunt’ proving especially entertaining, despite neither coming to a satisfying conclusion. I attempted to engage the receptionist in the latter, but her slightly fatalistic response of “sometimes you’re just not lucky” suggested she wasn’t in a playful mood. After a bracing shower, I was looking forward to slipping between some crisp Egyptian cotton sheets and under a soft, cosy down-filled duvet. Unfortunately these seemed to have gone missing from my room, but as hypothermia was rapidly setting in and I didn’t want to risk offending the receptionist again with another enquiry, I settled for the scratchy blanket instead. I did enjoy the orthopaedic mattress supplied: the built in sag meant my spine was kept in perfect alignment all night as any unnecessary movement was eliminated. However, the heightened state of arousal caused by the threat of an unexpected roommate arriving at any point during the night was not particularly conducive to a good night’s sleep; I awoke unrefreshed and with an inexplicable feeling of anger at the world. My driver was punctual and cheerful, and with a cheery cry of “wheels is wheels” we set off for the terminal, leaving three others somewhere in the bowels of the hotel. They may still be there. At one point during my wait in the terminal the next day I did find myself wistfully looking back at my evening in the Gateway; it was at least more varied than the seven hours I spent in the departure lounge. Eventually though, my flight took off, depriving me of a bonus night. However, as we thundered down the runway and our wheels lifted off the ground, a small, unexpected pang of regret ran through me. I think I’ll be back. …