My room is reliably plush (it is surprising how quickly one can take luxury for granted) and has a balcony-view of the sea. The greatest joy of the room is the fact that everything in it works exactly as it is supposed to &mdash a shower with an instantly responsive temperature knob, lights that dim or brighten at the touch of a button, towels, napkins and toiletries exactly where I tend to reach for them. Then, there&rsquos a fiendishly proactive housekeeping service that pops in whenever I pop out and replaces anything I&rsquove as much as touched or moved. After realising this, I try to reposition things exactly as they were when I don&rsquot want them replaced, but the stratagem never works. I begin to imagine someone with a PhD in housekeeping looking at my childishly re-folded towels, laughing indulgently and replacing them with freshly laundered ones. One day, I happen to leave tossed across the unmade bed a strip of Kannada newspaper inserted by the istriwalla while folding my shirt. When I return, the bowl of grapes that I&rsquod sampled has been replaced by succulent golden plums, a small box of chocolate has appeared on the bedside table, and the strip of newspaper is exactly where I&rsquod left it, but now on a perfectly made bed.