One of the best holidays I ever had took place just a few hundred yards from my flat. I'd taken a week off work and blithely assumed I'd be invited to a friend's villa in Tuscany, even though I didn't have any friends with villas in Tuscany. Well, I woke up on Monday morning and realised that this wasn't going to happen. What to do? I fancied a change of scene, but didn't feel like making much of an effort. So I rang the nearest hotel, packed my bag, walked up the hill and booked in for two days.

At a stroke I had avoided all the hassle and expense of travelling, while still benefiting from all the luxury and - most importantly - lack of responsibility that staying in a hotel can afford. For two long, lazy days I took long baths and long naps, gazed out of the window, played with the light switches, opened and shut all the draws of the cupboards, read books and availed myself of cocktails from room service. I had nothing to do, no plans all day, and only myself to please.

I invited friends round for early evening drinks and went out on the town both nights. And both nights I knew I had my stress-free sanctuary to return to, rather than my grotty flat with its mess and piles of bills.

Being a tourist in my home town also gave me a completely different perspective on it. Rather than trudging along the familiar streets and gazing at the pavement as I normally did, I sprang along them with all the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a foreign visitor. Buses appeared to me as sightseeing tours rather than slave-trucks ... I had time to meander. I suppose I was lucky that the weather was good, but then if it had been raining, I would have simply stayed in my room.

When it was time to go home, I just ambled back down the hill. I was so cheered by my experience that my grotty flat didn't look so grotty after all, and I sorted out all those bills.