FUNNY old job, this one, and one it's safer not to disclose when among strangers. We share with teachers the fate of having everyone know far better how to do our job than we do ourselves, and giving us the benefit of their wisdom. At length.

It's best to say you work in an office or are a data inputter. Neither is untrue enough to endanger your immortal soul; neither is interesting enough to warrant further quizzing.

Sometimes, however, jobs have to go down on a form or are demanded outright - and that's how I came to be asked bluntly by an hotelier a couple of years ago "You're not Paddy Burt, are you?"

Paddy Burt is the forthright hotel critic of a national newspaper and she books the hotels where she and her husband stay, though she certainly wouldn't give her occupation openly, as I did when caught on the hop while booking for Sir and me. She must, however, use a surname other than her professional one, so I can see why he was suspicious.

Assuring him I was a mere provincial hack, I didn't dare tell him he just wasn't in her price bracket, award-winning restaurant notwithstanding. If he had been, Sir and I wouldn't have been booking in.

But we don't have to be paid critics to have very decided views about what we like and don't like when we're on holiday. Pet hates stay in the memory, too.

It isn't the big things that matter. I can do without the grand and impressive ambience and the swimming pool and gym if the little creature comforts are in place.

Personally, I wish it was clear before I arrived whether the shower was a proper, stick your shower cap on and stand under it, job or one of those things that looks more like the telephone in a Fifties' French X film and hangs around the bath taps being useless. It's not too bad if it has a passing, if generally insecure, relationship with a hook on the wall; if not, forget it.

In fairness, I do think the en suite bath or shower room is not just the best thing since sliced bread, but even better than a premium-grade loaf. No-one can mourn the death of the dressing-gowned dodge down the corridor, towel and sponge bag in hand, only to find another guest has got there first, then the listening watch from behind your room door to make sure you hear them leave.

Being a reader in bed, especially in an unfamiliar one where sleep doesn't come so readily, I hate 20-watt bulbs or dimly - brochures would call it subtly - lit rooms with no bedside lights at all.

Trouser presses are great, not just for Sir's togs but for my best wool tailoreds; so is the presence of a hairdryer and a selection of leaflets for local attractions. If the tea and coffee tray boasts Earl Grey and shortbread biscuits, it's a bonus. Apart from that, if I don't have to make it, clean it, shop for it, plan it, cook it or wash up after it, I'm very happy.

And the one thing guests remember most of all is the one which costs the hotel absolutely nothing: a genuine, smiling welcome. Put us in the right frame of mind as we walk in and we're in the mood to be pleased.

Incidentally, those who inspect hotels for our benefit don't seem to have made any impression on the establishment I reported to two such organisations in 2001.

Last month it was still sporting, on its now-fading sign, the classification symbols earned by the previous, first-rate, owners. Maybe it has pulled up its socks but there's only one way to find out and I won't risk it, even though they do have decent showers.