It could well be that I died on the flight over. Or perhaps I was taken at some point during the swift Di and dodi-esque silver Mercedes transfer, incinerated in a fire ball with no paparazzi to record the tragedy.

I am suspecting this because I am presenting padding around a room that can only be described as heaven.

Sweetly fragrant candles in the bathroom and suite, lamps glowing, radio playing classical to soothe my modern nerves, a bath ready for drawing right there to the left of the softest landing I could imagine… this was what greeted two tired green eyes upon opening the door to room 22 of the Dean Street Townhouse.

I am quietly grateful and not complaining as this is definitely not the room I paid for. Could they tell I was the girl that would be upstairs turning it into an episode? No pea under this princesses mattress tonight.