2004-09-14 - 8:51 a.m.

My computer got a virus and I got a fever, so I guess that makes us about even. It means a day around the hotel, though, mooching around and feeling hot, though not hott, and sweaty.

One of my favourite hotel phenomena, and there are quite a few, is floor envy. You get it more or less every time you get in the lift with other people. Generally, the higher floor you have to go to, the swankier your room will be, and so letting people know that you�re on a higher floor than them, and therefore a better person in every conceivable way, is an art form, though not one that your humble narrator gets to practise too much, let him assure you.

The seasoned floor envy pro, residing in a suitably high ranking floor, will hang back in the lobby and let the masses enter the lift first. Then they will wait before pressing the button themselves, and hope that someone asks them which floor they need. They can then announce it loudly to the entire lift, ensuring that the people at the back, who may have missed the nuances of button pressing, are completely up to speed with the floor number involved.

If they are not asked which floor they would like, then Plan B comes into effect. This does involve button pressing, but with such a flourish that anyone sharing the confines of the lift would be hard pressed not to notice the superior ranking. A forefinger demonstratively going up and down the panel of possible numbers a few times usually suffices, though the more brazen might sometimes throw in a �Er, what was my floor again now�?� just to make sure.

The Floor Nazi�s worst nightmare is seeing the crowds disperse at their inferior heights, only for one person to remain, someone on the highest floor who, confident that they could not be trumped, held back until the last, executing a very specific and crushing floor victory over the would-be victor, the plebs on the lowlier floors not even worth their while beating down so crudely.

Breakfast buffets are another reassuring constant. Today was pretty typical. My fellow diners, all but the loudest yuppie scum respectfully conversing in hushed tones, the hungover crowd queuing up by the juice dispenser so that they can down one of the tiny glasses quickly before nursing another back at their table. I have been in their ranks many times. And if I ever own a hotel, I will make my fortune by the introduction of large juice glasses at the breakfast buffet. Genius.

There�s a young Japanese couple piling up bacon and hash browns, weaving their way back through a couple of tables where honeymooners goo over each other.

Two men in suits are sat at the table next to me, digesting cereals in complete silence. They look awkward, crippled by�.what? Embarrassment? I assume they are colleagues who know each other, but not well, away on business who had drunk way too much the night before in an attempt to break the ice. They had ill-advisedly confided in each other about their workmates, perhaps some one night stand they had with someone from accounts, or traded some intimate secrets and are regretting it in the cold neon light of the fruit selection bar.

Even better, perhaps a surplus of alcohol combined with the liberating effects of being away from their wives lead them to engage in a more delicate indiscretion, something that has stunned them both in its intensity, something which they can only sit there and silently contemplate over their cornflakes and rice pops.

And me? I always find myself eating things I would never dream of usually � looking into my bowl, I see fromage frais over bran flakes and melon pieces, ingredients which I would not even eat separately in normal day to day life.

Hotels do strange things to people.