If this column were hand-written it would be in a somewhat shaky state this week because I am suffering from Single Traveller's Bed Syndrome.

I went down to Devon at the weekend with my daughter and son-in-law to celebrate a significant birthday of my sister-in-law and to meet up with nephews, nieces and cousins as one does on these delightful family occasions.

I was driven from door to door, the door at the Devon end being the door of a well-known hotel where the party was being held, and we had the foresight to book rooms so that when the champagne took its toll we would have only a short distance to travel to bed before we became too tired and emotional.

Good thinking, wouldn't you say?

Now, bear in mind that this is in the middle of tourist country and they are supposed to be having a hard time of it.

So you might be forgiven for thinking that they would pull out all the stops when real live folk came to stay.

The hotel was nowhere near full so we felt sure our rooms would be pretty good.

We began by finding out that there was no porter to help us with our luggage and, worse still, no lift to get us to our floor. The first black mark, especially as we had my daughter's dog with us and she had almost as much luggage as we did!

We staggered upstairs and along corridors to find that their room was very pleasant, looking out over some lovely gardens.

My spirits rose - maybe I was going to be lucky, even though I was flying solo.

What a Silly Billy I was. The end of the corridor, over the kitchens with all the usual aromas coming through the fire exit which led to the iron fire escape, and there was my snug little abode.

And when I say snug, I mean snug.

The end of the bed was so close to the wall that I had to walk sideways to get past and go to the bathroom.

There was a dressing table so low that you would have needed to be a person of restricted growth to use it, with no stool on which to perch.

If there had been a stool you could not have entered the bathroom. I could have told you every hour of the night, since my bed turned out to be too narrow even to allow me to turn over.

Thank goodness for the champagne which at least helped to dull the pain.

Dinner was another revelation. We ordered Dover sole, which duly arrived complete with two little beady eyes surveying the scene. No offer to take the flesh from the bones, which is the normal thing. It may be some time before I decide to order Dover sole again, even though it is one of my favourites - I shall see those accusing little eyes!

The last straw was when I finally retired to bed to find that someone had opened my top window to the gale which was blowing by then and my curtains were giving a good imitation of Concorde.

My son-in-law did his famous Indian Rope Trick, climbing up to close the window, there being no pole for such a purpose.

Next day I gave my famous impression of an ambulant question mark. In the midst of all this aggravation, I must say, the staff were charming.

But it is clear the management need to get their act together or other guests may not be so tolerant. Brighton hotels, take note!