I had fallen foul of seasickness once before on a ferry crossing to the Isle of Man for a funeral, sitting with my eyes closed while my rotting insides swelled and receded like the effluent coloured tide on Skegness beach. Determined not to lose my complimentary croissant I adjourned to my cabin bed. There I stayed, lying with my face buried in the mattress until the tannoy announced that we were about to arrive and the boat began to wiggle its way into Caen harbour

‘Seriously’, the husband groaned as I scooped up the fruit basket and macaroons and cleared the ensuite of all the toiletries.

Batting away his disapproval I carried on. Living in hotels with my job has rendered me appreciative of every small perk; I haven’t bought a bar of soap in years.