The ‘waiters’ at breakfast are a right laugh. It’s a buffet so they don’t really have much to do. They are huddled into outdoor jackets, clutching at the collars as if to let in a cubic centimetre of the tepid morning air in the dining room would surely kill them. And they look so pissed off at the whole business of being up in the wee small hours, at 7.30am. Say ‘salaam’ and you’ll be met with a cold stare. The only job they have to do, so far as I can see, is to clear the dirty tables. It makes them so unhappy. Like conscript soldiers sent out into no-man’s land, in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter.