As you all know, Your Lord and Lady Piggott have been away in Eastbourne for the weekend with our friends the Seymour-Clouts.

We arrived at our favourite guesthouse just a few minutes after six o’clock on Friday evening and were a little dismayed that resident landlords Frank and Paul had been called away on business. We were instead welcomed at reception by their friends Ms. Hardyke and her companion of many years Ms. Sprattbutton.

The two ladies had apparently been holding the fort for the last couple of weeks or so and over tea and muffins gave us an extremely long and tedious account of how efficiently they had been running the establishment in their associates’ absence.

Frank and Paul have been accommodating us all for many years and have become used to Your Lord’s habits so when after an hour of listening to the new hosts' inane ramblings I produced a cigar from my jacket pocket and beckoned them for a light, I was somewhat taken aback when their chattering stopped mid-sentence and they proffered looks that would have mere mortals scurrying for the cupboard under the stairs.

On seeing two contorted faces that could have quite easily curdled milk and put the entire yogurt industry out of business, I enquired as to the reason for their aghast, even though the interlude from their tedious and unrelenting narrative was in itself a tonic whose recipe the manufacturer of Actimel would have quite gladly paid a small fortune for.

‘We do not allow smoking at The Pink Pillars, My Lord’, announced Ms. Sprattbutton.

As Your Lord likes to keep pace with current events and is therefore aware of the smoking laws introduced by our loony Labour government, I apologised and rose to make my way to the back garden.

‘Neither do we permit smoking in the garden’, Ms. Hardyke snapped, her nostrils flaring as if given a good dose of smelling salts.

‘And what do you allow?’ I asked with the look I give Grimes when it is time for the implement to see the light of day.

‘All activities excluding smoking, drinking, swearing or excessive noise in rooms after 10 o’clock in the evenings and most definitely no takeaways to be eaten in the lounge or rooms’, replied Ms. Sprattbutton.

Lady Piggott and the Seymour-Clouts slowly turned their heads and looked at one another with expressions that I should imagine rivalled those of the inhabitants of Pompeii a second after Mount Vesuvius blew its top in A.D. 79.

‘In that case, my dears’, I responded, ‘it appears that normal human activities do not have a place in this establishment while you are both at the helm.

‘I appreciate your views on smoking, drinking and a bit of ladies and gentlemen after dark but the fact that you could assume that Your Lord would lower himself to purchase a takeaway of any description is beyond the pail.

‘I can quite honestly state that I have never been so insulted in my entire existence.

'I would also like to inform you Ms. Hardyke, that your handlebar moustache, sideburns and monocle do not become you and the aroma of your aftershave is more offensive than any cigar, cigarette or pipe.'

With that I lit my cigar, flicked the match onto the carpet and left with my wife and friends.

Fortunately, we found exquisite accommodation a few streets down from The Pink Pillars at the Las Vegas Hotel where smoking, drinking and other assorted goings-on are positively encouraged.

Have you ever stayed at a hotel from hell? If so, Your Lord and his followers would love to hear about it.

I hope you all had a splendid weekend and feel refreshed enough to take on the coming week.

Your Lord, Erastus Theobald Piggott