The subject of accommodation while on an examining gig has a degree of fascination. The academic proceedings are arduous and may involve a ten hour day, being self important and gnomic at the same time. This particular hotel was curious in that each room was named after a racecourse.

In the dining room, the chairs were given demure coverings giving the feeling of dustsheets after the owner's death. The decor generally was smart but bleak, with melting nymphs and fountains throughout. The nymph was placed just outside my door, as if she had wandered out dressed in skimpy mode to hear the door slam behind her. I blame the running pool down the corridor on a need to peeduring my stay. One window dedicated itself to High Fashion despite looking more like an illicitly opened locker with stolen dress and high-heels.

At night there was a spectacular view of the Cathedral and the harshly lit roundabout. An overindulgence in the fried breakfas led to an appalling bout of diarrhoea leaving the city for the last time, getting back to Brighton anxious and thin on dignity.