My girlfriend attended an exclusive soirée about a year ago called something like “How To Write A Chicklit Bestseller”, where a couple of successful authors stood on a small podium and gave the assembled throng the benefit of their wisdom and the chance to feel completely sick with envy at their stress-free, dinner-party-laden existences. I could have given the same chicklit soirée myself, perhaps handing round an A4 sheet with a few bullet points including “make persistent use of abysmal puns such as ‘he was a cunning linguist’. I’d have charged less, and the throng would have no reason to feel envious of me, as I’ve never written a bestselling chicklit novel and probably never will, although it’s probably best to keep all my options open. Anyway, in an almost pitying gesture, each “attendée” of that soirée was given a gift of a free night in a certain London hotel – it’s not quite a top London hotel, but it’s certainly no B&B in Dollis Hill. In a moment of panic last week, Jenny realised that the time period for claiming this freebie was nearly up, and so Friday saw us pack our overnight bags and head for the West End.

We checked in and were sent up to the thirteenth floor, which turned out to be the top floor, and our room turned out to be a suite, with glorious views of the London skyline, although no buildings we could actually put a name to without reference to the internet, which was complimentary, and came whizzing through the air at 8Mbps, almost like magic. There was a huge bed that was big enough for three; they had emphasised this by putting three pillows side-by-side across the bed. “Maybe we could invite someone back, later on,” I suggested to Jenny, in a rare moment of sexual adventure. I then imagined a depressing night spent avoiding the amorous advances of a hefty Polish hotel porter called Marek, and decided against it. Our attentions then shifted to a bottle of champagne that was sitting in an ice bucket by the door. We contemplated this champagne, and wondered if it was free. We consulted the price list, and on seeing that an incorrect decision would cost us £38, we decided against that as well.

It turned out that we also got a free a la carte dinner. Amazing. “How much did you pay for that, er, soirée last year?” I asked Jenny. “Uh… 35 quid?” This was turning out to be an exceptionally good deal. We sat down, and a bottle of champagne appeared. “This is on the house,” the friendly waiter informed us. It’s great when people mistake you for someone important, and we guzzled the plonk before they realised that we lived in scummy flats in Muswell Hill and Tooting Broadway respectively, and scrabble around every week for repetitive work on low-budget magazine titles. Orders were taken, 3 courses came and went, more glasses of wine and brandy were dispensed – which we assumed that we’d have to pay for – but at the end of the evening we were thanked profusely for dining at the hotel, and told that everything was on the house, at which point I cursed not having chosen the brandy that cost thirty quid, because that’s the kind of ungrateful, miserable bastard that I am.

The next morning there was a huge complimentary breakfast served, at which point I made another of my frequent decisions to diet, or at least take some form of exercise. “Kickboxing, perhaps,” I said through a mouthful of cumberland sausage. “Yeah, kickboxing. I don’t care who gets hurt, who gets a size 10 foot in the groin, I just want to lose some weight.” We lumbered to reception in order to check out, and were predictably presented with an enormous bill. We queried it, and were then informed that a terrible mistake had been made, and that, yes, everything was free. We estimated that the total freeloading for the 17-hour period came to a not-inconsiderable £350. Result.

Then yesterday Jenny got fleeced at a Japanese takeaway for about twenty quid, so a suppose that restores the karmic balance slightly, but not much, I admit that.