World Travel Guide Online

Basil Fawlty Was Right!

“What do you mean there’s no elevator? My wife is pregnant!”

The Swedish father glared at me and pointed to his pregnant wife and two small children. “You mean to say that every time we get back to the hotel each day we have to climb five very steep flights of stairs to get to our room. Look! Can’t you see my wife is pregnant?!

I sighed as I changed their room allocation to a ground floor room. The Swede glared at me one more time before shepherding his family off to the nearby room. I sat down and reflected on my first few weeks of working at Kensington Hotel. It had been quite good so far, although I’d had to make a few adjustments.

Kensington Hotel

Kensington Hotel was a large hotel situated in Bayswater, London, that offered budget accommodation (but only budget by London standards). It had about 60 rooms, ranging from doubles to eight bed dormitories. Since starting two weeks ago, I had picked up the reception work quite easily. It was really just a matter of greeting new guests, filling out registration cards, checking them into their rooms on the computer, giving them keys and directing them to their room. The main difficulty I had was trying to deliver friendly customer service without resorting to throttling the guests. Often the problems that arose were not completely their fault; some had a limited grasp on the English language. Some, though, were just plain stupid.

But, after all, a hotel wouldn’t be a hotel without annoying, whinging guests. They fell into three broad categories – regular everyday backpackers like me, Scandinavian people on package holidays, and packs of screaming French kids on a school excursion. As you might imagine, the latter were an absolute nightmare.

The most common cause of complaints was the lack of an elevator. The hotel was five stories tall which meant it wasn’t required to have an elevator. Complaints of this nature usually came from guests staying on floors 4 or 5, strangely enough. I quickly developed an ability to size up an arriving guest and immediately change their room allocation if it looked like they would object to such a climb.

The other problem wasn’t so much a cause of complaints, but a nuisance to me – the in-room intercom/radio. Each room had a radio fixed to the wall, which also doubled as an intercom for contacting reception. The button to turn the radio on was next to the clearly marked ‘call reception’ button. However, human nature dictates that any buttons that can be pressed, should be pressed. Maybe guests thought a grand prize would come out of the radio or something, so the very first thing they would do when arriving in their rooms was to press the damn intercom button! An incredibly loud buzz would then fill the reception area. It only stopped when the intercom was answered so I had to drop whatever I was doing and run over to the intercom switch board. What followed was utter confusion as my voice mysteriously entered the particular room, asking if I could be of assistance. It happened on a daily basis and this is how the conversation usually went:

Me: This is reception, can I help you please?
Guest: (in the background) Hey Ronald, I heard a voice, who was that?
Me: It’s reception here ma’am, can I help you?
Guest: Where’s that voice coming from?
Me: Ma’am, it’s coming from your radio, I’m the hotel receptionist.
Guest: Oh!….what do you want?
Me: Well, you buzzed reception – what do you want?

Guest: I don’t want anything.
Me: Well, then why did you buzz reception!?
Guest: I didn’t.
Me: You did!!
Guest: No, I didn’t.
Me: YES YOU DID!!!
Guest: No, I just turned on the radio…ohhhh…sorry the button says ‘call reception’. Ha ha ha, I accidentally pressed the reception button instead of the radio button, ha ha ha. How funny! (in the background) Hey Ronald, I accidentally pressed the reception button instead of the radio button, ha ha ha!

Enough to drive you mad really.

The other event that happened on a daily basis was the guests’ continual disbelief that the rooms contained a stand alone shower cubicle. People didn’t seem to understand what I meant when I explained that there was just a shower in the room. I mean it was literally just a shower cubicle plonked in the middle of the room – three sides were made from moulded hard plastic and the front contained a shower curtain. As a result conversations at reception usually went:

Me: Here’s your room key ma’am, please leave it here at reception when you leave each day. By the way, the toilet is situated along the corridor just outside your room, but for your comfort, your room contains a shower.
Guest: Oh we have a bathroom, how lovely, did you hear that Boris, we have a bathroom in our room!
Me: No ma’am, you have a shower in your room.
Guest: Yes, I heard you – a bathroom in our room.
Me: No, it’s just a shower ma’am, just a shower.

Guest: Yes, well what’s the difference anyway?
Me: The difference is that you just have a shower, just a shower!
Guest: Are you trying to say it’s like a shower cubicle that’s been placed right in the middle of the room?
Me: That’s precisely what I’m trying to say!
Guest: Really? No sinks, no toilet, no cupboards, no tiles, just a shower?
Me: Yes, just a shower!!

Guest: Oh how curious, a bit like the Tardis in Doctor Who. Hey Boris we have our very own time machine in our room! Ha ha ha, isn’t that absolutely curious! Now, tell me where the elevator is please.

Then, after ranting about the lack of an elevator for five minutes and getting their room allocation changed, they would go to their room and accidentally press the intercom button instead of the radio button. After my first week I understood Basil Fawlty’s complaints completely, hotels would be wonderful places if it wasn’t for the guests.

However if I thought I was going crazy, it was reassuring to know that that most of the hotel staff had already gone insane in some sort of way.

The first was Cornelia, the hotel manager, the maddest of them all. She had already proved to be a lot nicer than the night she broke up my midnight room party back over at the Porchester. I’d even go as far to say that she was likeable enough in her quirky, headmistress-like way. Cornelia lived in the hotel, having an apartment in the basement. Apparently it was quite large and actually went under the outside street. I don’t know why, but somehow this fascinated me. I never got to see her apartment, but the concept raised images of either a gloomy World War II bunker or a seedy S&M dungeon.

Cornelia did look out for her staff, however, and told me on my first shift that if I ever had any problems during the evening shift I should not hesitate to call her for help. I only did this once, though. When some German guests claimed they had paid for reservations but there was no record of it in the computer, I decided to phone Cornelia. I should have known something was awry when she cheerily told me she’d be up in a jiffy before hiccuping loudly and giggling like a school girl. She staggered into reception five minutes later in her nightie, carefully peering at us with bleary eyes. As she slowly swayed and leant on the reception desk, hiccupping again, it was quite obvious that she was very, very drunk. But Cornelia must have felt she had to explain to the German couple that she was very, very drunk. They couldn’t speak English well and didn’t understand the words ‘pissed as a fart’ so Cornelia simulated removing the cork and sculling down a bottle of wine. I don’t know what the German couple thought of this drunk and disorderly service but at least it was attentive. Cornelia got on to the computer and checked them into the best room in the hotel. When I asked her about the confusion over payment of said room she loudly stated that they could (and I quote) “have the room for fuckin’ free if they want”. She gave them the keys and then insisted on carrying their two large suitcases to the room herself. Ten minutes later she appeared back in reception and tried to get me to join her in a drink before returning to her flat, presumably to pass out.

The next day she didn’t mention the incident, I didn’t mention the incident, and the incident never got mentioned.

Louise was second-in-charge and also lived in the hotel. I always had a soft spot for Louise because after all, she had hired me. However, her mood was very inconsistent. You just never knew what mood you were going to get when she started work each morning. Eight o’clock in the morning was always the most nervous time of the day for receptionists at Kensington Hotel. Some days I would get a warm and friendly “Hello Dave, what a wonderful day it is today.”; some days I would get a terse “how are you Dave?”; and some days I would get a simple “What the fuck are you looking at?”. Don’t even ask me about the days that Cornelia and Louise were both in a bad mood.

Hedia

The other receptionist that I worked with was Hedia. She was a pretty French girl who was truly sweet as honey and possessed a quick wit. She was probably close to the most sane (least insane?) of the staff but for one fatal flaw. She hated children. One minute she would be telling you a funny joke, sitting back in her chair, completely relaxed, then she would peer up and start screaming at some poor kid who was climbing on a reception seat. When the French school groups stayed Hedia would go haywire for days on end.

Glenn

Glenn, the maintenance manager (my roommate in the Porchester), was one of the more sane ones as well. But he was still prone to making morbid comments about letting the guests “just electrocute themselves” whenever they reported power point problems. He was a highly efficient worker, and I was constantly amazed at how he managed to keep a hotel that was situated in a very old building and frequently reached its capacity of 400 guests relatively problem free. Due to the inconsistent nature of maintenance work, he often had a half hour spare where he would sit beside me in reception, smoking his cigarette, drinking his mug of tea and having a good long conversation.

Osei

Then there was Osei, the night porter. Osei originated from Ghana and had the most relaxed persona of anyone I knew. He worked as a Sainsbury shopping bag packer all day and as a night porter all night. A dilemma that invariably arises in such a scenario is when a person actually sleeps. Osei had a simple solution for this – he still slept at night, sitting up in his chair at reception. It didn’t really cause too many problems for the hotel. After all, there weren’t many guests around late at night and if they needed anything, they just had to tap him on the shoulder and he would wake immediately. Cornelia and Louise were aware that he slept, but they turned a blind eye to it because the night porter position was not in heavy demand – shitty hours for shitty pay. Perhaps Osei was so relaxed because he got so much sleep. You just had to look at him to feel relaxed yourself. I spent many hours sitting beside Osei after my evening shift had ended, discussing the world and life in general. But I always felt sad for Osei, for he had a wife and three small children back in Ghana. It was hard to get by in Ghana, he explained, so he was working in England to earn some decent money to support his family. He was only able to speak to them once a fortnight and had only been back to visit them once in the past three years. As a result, one child he had met just once and the youngest one he had not met at all.

The last group of staff members in the hotel were the chambermaids, who made the breakfast and cleaned the hotel each day. I was told that they were a close-knit group who didn’t really interact with the other staff in the hotel. However, I quickly discovered the way to gain their friendship. The chambermaid’s shift started at 7am each day of the week. Because Cornelia and Louise didn’t show up until 8am, they tasked Hedia and I to carefully monitor when the chambermaids arrived each day, with a view to docking their pay if they were late. The managers had a sneaking suspicion that some of the chambermaids came in late occasionally but they were wrong – all the chambermaids always came in late. However it was usually by less than ten minutes each time and the thing is this, and I confess – I am a late person. I can’t help it; I just cannot make an appointment on time no matter what time it is. Therefore a large dose of sympathy was given on my part.

Nabila

The chambermaids handled their lateness in two ways when it occurred – they either regarded me with pleading mournful eyes as they walked in or wore a defiant expression that dared me to go and dock their pay. But would I dock their pay? Of course not! They were paid a pittance as it was and I’m just too nice! So, with exaggerated movements I would pretend to look down and carefully wipe the dust off my computer monitor as they walked past, giggling to themselves. I knew I had completely won them over the day the head chambermaid Nabila came in late. As she walked past, I ‘accidentally’ dropped my pen and had to crouch down to retrieve it. Yet when I stood back up Nabila was standing there, leaning on the counter, wearing a wide grin. She said, “Geez you’re a funny bloke, Dave,” before walking away. She obviously had more to say on the matter to the other chambermaids because from that day on, a breakfast of rolls, jam and orange juice was brought to me each morning by the chambermaids. Later on, as our camaraderie and goodwill continued I was touched to find that my new room got cleaned and bed sheets changed on a weekly basis. This was not part of their duties!

More often than not, the person that did both these chores was Katherine, a sixty-something year old Irish lady. I was shocked the day she came up, casually threw some bread rolls on the receptionist desk and said, “here’s yer fockin rolls,” before ambling away. I was upset and wanted to apologise for putting her out so much because after all I was quite capable of walking down to the breakfast room myself and getting a roll. But Nabila came up and whispered that Katherine really liked me and that was her way of showing it. I was a bit disbelieving at first but quickly realised it was true. She treated Nabila the worst of all, constantly swearing at her and visibly ignoring her at times, but they were actually extremely close. That was just Katherine’s way. She hardly ever talked to anyone and never talked to anyone she despised. In the few times she did talk, I never heard her speak a sentence without including the F word in it.

Nabila once told me Katherine’s story. When she was 18 years old, back in Ireland, she had gotten pregnant. After Katherine gave birth, the baby was taken away by her family against her will, and adopted out. They told her she was too poor to look after it. Katherine became estranged from her family and shortly after, left home and found herself living on the London streets. After a long, hard life she had seemingly miraculously found love and a loving gentle husband named Charlie five years ago. They shared their lives, went walking in the parks and spent time just sitting together on the couch by the fireplace. Charlie died last year from bough cancer. Katherine was clearly a battle weary person, but one who had the ability to positively affect and influence the people around her. Her arthritis prevented her from moving very quickly and she could only clean half as many rooms as the other chambermaids. But they all simply each added a couple of rooms to their daily rosters, including Nabila, and the work got done.

It was related to Katherine that I finally changed my attitude towards Cornelia, the hotel manager. She won me over permanently when I found out that on one occasion last year the hotel group General Manager had come to visit Kensington Hotel. He saw Cornelia in her office and actually ordered her to sack Katherine – because she was an inefficient employee, she was not pulling her weight and the hotel was not a charity. He was a fearsome man and not accustomed to ever being defied. But this time; defied he was. With her trademark dragon-like roar, Cornelia let rip and informed him in colourful words that Katherine would be sacked over her dead body, and every staff member, from chambermaid to receptionist to manager would quit their jobs immediately if anything of the sort happened. She apparently ended the conversation by saying that Katherine would leave this job the day “she was good and fockin’ ready”. The transaction ended with him slinking out under the hostile gaze of the rest of the gathered staff and that was that!