You’ve met someone new, and you’re both suddenly overcome with an insatiable urge to shag each other senseless. But you want somewhere discreet, comfortable and quiet, which rules out your place, their place and the local sub post-office respectively. So where’s it going to be? Maybe some of London’s swankiest hotels wouldn’t be averse to letting out a room for an illicit afternoon liaison?

Cynthia takes my call at The Metropolitan. It’s a hotel proud to offer the sexiest night in London, but that’s not quite what I’m after. I explain that I need a double room for myself and a (cough) special friend, but only for a couple of hours. After a brief silence and a stifled giggle she advises me that she could offer a king sitting room for £150. What about something with, say, a more seductive atmosphere? “Ah,” says Cynthia. “So how many people will be in the room?” Cynthia is clearly more open minded than I am. I reassure her that orgies are the last thing on my mind (well, perhaps not quite the last thing), and she comes up with a king size bedroom for two overlooking the park for £225.

Surely rock star haunt The Portobello must be no stranger to hot afternoon action. Their website describes the sultry decor of their Moroccan style rooms as having “the atmosphere of a Berber tent”. I look for a picture of a Berber tent on the internet and find something that looks like a bin liner in a sandpit. This is not promising. But when I call, Hannah offers me a “spectacular four poster bed, which you climb a ladder to get into.” Sadly she can’t offer me a special price for just spending a vigorously lustful afternoon in it. “It’s not our concern for how long you’re actually in the room, I’m afraid.”

Lisa is a businesslike woman at the Pelham Hotel who discusses my request in a more matter of fact way. “How many hours do you need it for?”, she says, her tone suggesting doubt as to my ability to keep it up for very long. “Oh, 3, maybe 4,” I say, casually. She advises me that there’s a lovely double room on the 4th floor, decorated in red, boudoir-style, and if I only need it for a few hours, well, £135? Bargain. But Lisa’s not done yet. She offers to have rose petals scattered in the room, champagne laid on, fruit… Fruit. Fantastic. This is more like it.

But it’s not always that easy. No 5 Maddox Street have a reputation for complete devotion to the whims of their guests, but getting them to give me a discount for a room for a lunchtime bang is well nigh impossible. “What do you MEAN?” says the girl on the reservations desk, impatiently. I don’t think my request is so unusual. Hotels throughout the world are crammed with people copulating at all times of the day. I’m just being honest about it. I ask her if she could maybe just sling a mattress in a broom cupboard by the lift, but she has already put the phone down. “BUT I WANT TO FUCK IN YOUR HOTEL!”

However, the majority of places are thoroughly helpful and sometimes it feels almost conspiratorial discussing my plans with the staff. Sebastian at the Hempel speaks with a touching and almost fatherly concern that I do things properly. For the ultimate post meridian tryst he gives me half price on a magnificent room overlooking the garden with a bed hanging down from the ceiling. But it’s still £400. Whew. Jonna at the Savoy also offers me a 50% discount, but she can’t appear to get her head round what I want it for. “I suppose I’m after something luxurious and very sexy,” I tell her. “Er… but you only want it for the afternoon?” She gets the gist eventually. “OK, if you’re in at 2 and out by 6, we could give you a king room for £200, or maybe a junior suite overlooking the river for £290.”

To get some perspective I try the County Hall Travel Inn. Instead of slogans like “an environment of strength and gentleness”, or “unparalleled sophistication and elegance”, this is the type of place which entices you with the promise of “no on-site parking” or “hairdryer may not be available, please check first.” After a lengthy wait for an operator which begins to dangerously dampen my ardour, Michael answers, considers my request, and advises me that their rooms don’t become available until 2pm. I say that 2 until 4 would probably get the job done. But he can’t budge from the American style room rates, as much as he would like to. It’s all night or nothing. How unadventurous.

My last conversation is with a lady at the Regency, a four star hotel on Queen’s Gate. I’m blunt about my requests. She’s blunt about the prices. “Four hours? We can give you a standard double for £60, or a double superior for £80.” It doesn’t sound as if I’m going to be cavorting within sumptuous Egyptian cotton sheets with a 450 thread count for this kind of money. Maybe they could offer me a suite? There’s a gargantuan pause, accompanied by some tepid jazz funk. Hang on, she’s back. “Hello, sir? I’m sorry, I can’t let you have a suite for an afternoon.” “Really?” “No.” “How about on a different day?” “No sir.” “Not even if I pay full rate?” “No.” Hmm. So I’m permitted to indulge in all manner of depraved activity in their cheaper rooms, but not allowed anywhere near their expensive furniture. And I thought a stain was just a stain…