Nice hotel is best place to meet, no one will ever question you unless you arrive looking like an eejit thats never been in a nice hotel.
As I read the replies, I found myself thinking
"what kind of fool could possibly get caught out by such an absurd non-problem?". Then I remembered...
Hold my beerOn holiday in a swish Swiss town, staying at a grand old dowager empress of an hotel - the urge struck, and before long I was on the phone, speaking to Fritz, in some mittel-European agency, about the possibility of shipping in one of his racier dames up into my remote, land-locked valley. Whilst there were plenty of gals to choose from, the location meant that none were closer than 5 hours travel away at the very earliest. Nonetheless, the Horn of Gondor needed to be blown, and so, in short order, I was corresponding, then speaking directly with Rita, or whatever her name was, all the way from Moldova, but residing at that moment in Zurich. For the considerable promise of an overnight booking, she was prepared to jump in her car, and so, after agreeing a deal, she said she would. I mentioned to her that because I was doing some business with the hotel itself, I needed her to be more than usually discreet, and that she had to dress appropriately to fit in with what I thought of as the slightly stuffy, old-money nature of the town.
"Don't worry" she said
"I know exactly how to dress for there".
Four hours later and she phoned to tell me that preparing herself appropriately had taken far longer than she had originally anticipated, and consequently she had set out three hours later than indicated. Moreover, now there was another delay on the road, meaning she'd miss the hoped-for supper together at seven, and so she would now only arrive at around 11pm. Disappointed, but having few alternatives, I settled in to scoff down my Rósti in the cavernous and almost empty dining room, to chew over the imagined Himalayan heights of debauchery that I hoped to scale. And got slightly squiffy.
By midnight, I was officially pish, but worse - put out, and I called to tell her so. She said she was just half an hour away and was looking forward to seeing me and promised she would make it all up to me. Thus mollified, I began to think how I would secrete her in to my room, given that the hour was so unexpectedly late, and that I had just noticed, to my great alarm, that the morning concierge, who, over the preceding weekend, had become especially charmed by my wife, and had personally arranged for her airport transfer shortly after breakfast that very same day, was inexplicably now present to greet all incomers at the duty night desk. Mind racing, I told the dolly to call me five minutes before she was due to arrive, and that I would meet her in the car park to escort her in. Meantime, I went for a refreshing walk up the hill to plan how I would blithely swish past the night desk to our room.
It was bitterly cold out, rather than refreshing, and within 20 minutes, I decided to head back at double pace to meet Rita Poonani, head on at the pass. The phone rang -
"I'm here" she said spunkily. "OK: stay warm in the car and I'll be there in five to walk you in", I replied.
"Oh, don't worry, I'm just walking in... where are you?"...
I'd never been good at sprinting, but by gawd I gave it my best that night, even over the treacherous black ice. Taking three steps at a time, I lunged up the entrance stairs and burst, breathless, into the lobby, to find her, dressed as if for a swingers party, and the immaculately prim & fussy night concierge, both staring intently at me; she pleadingly, he - furiously:
"Your guest here, the young lady," said he,
"... she seems unsure of your name, sir."
