I love writing and I have done for some time. Recently, I received my first ever commission to write a piece for a very well known website. A website read by simply millions of people daily. This was undoubtedly my big break, a shot at the big time, move over Clarkson. So I accepted the commission and set about trying to come up with a useful, factual article. I am not quite there yet, but here is a brief snapshot of what I am going to submit.

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"I have been a user of Booking.Com for about 10 years and during that time I think that this is the first hotel I have stayed in that is run by an alcoholic. I'd like to say a fully functioning alcoholic, but sadly I can't. Or, it may apply for a very few hours in the mornings, between her first coffee and her first bottle of rose.

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The check in process was at best vague, more a piece of abstract performing art, if there is such a thing. Ordering beer that evening also proved to be an experience in performance rather than service. Actually thinking about it the French are famous for mime, so maybe the bar service was abstract mime, who knows.

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Our hosts husband was no better, not a drunk, but an old confused, worn out man. Who we think spoke French and was doing nothing more than firefighting, explaining to guests, their hosts bazaar approach to the hotel trade. Here was a couple who are trapped, trapped in a business that was slipping out of their hands into chaos. It may well have been that at one stage they were good at hotelliering, but that day has long gone. Trapped because everything they have, is tied up in this business, and now it's beyond their grasp to bring it back from the abyss.

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But, alcohol to one side, there was another bigger elephant in the room, our bloody room to be precise. As we enjoyed a peaceful late afternoon read in the lovely vine covered courtyard, a band started to set up right under our bedroom window. At this stage not a problem, in a sleepy village, in a run down hotel, whose drunk host was busy playing opera in the bar as she sipped rose wine, what was there to fear.

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Well it turned out quite a lot. This was not some quirky folky French ensemble, but a full on blues rock band played by people who must have read about the day music died in their newspapers the morning after. They were as loud as U2 and as musically talented as Vanilla Ice, Ice Ice Baby. They played on and off until 10.30pm, by which time their colostomy bags must have been full.  So in 30c heat we had to have the bedroom windows and shutters closed and it still sounded as though they were playing at the foot of our bed. It was about this time I wished the room had air con and a revolver with one bullet up the spout.

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This band was bad, it wasn't a language problem this it was hearing problem. I could hear them and that was not good. Still the six harden fans who pitched up to see them seemed excited. I say six, but at least one of those was the girlfriend of one of the band, she must have been as why else would she lug an amp out of the van for them."