the receptionist who wanted to go home

It's a funny feeling you get when you browse through a bookshop while waiting for a flight at a London airport, pick up a book at random and discover you are mentioned in it (even if not by name).

"A wander past hotel reception offers a reassuring cameo, however, as a woman with a bevy of kids surrounding her is engaged in delicate negotiations with a woman behind the counter who is wishing she could press a button that would instantly sit her in front of the telly with her feet up on the sofa, fag in one hand, foaming pint in the other. She opens her eyes but the woman with the army of kids hanging from her arms, legs and pockets is still giving her a hard time. 'But you must be able to fit us in,' she is saying. 'I know for a fact that John Rooney isn't coming, we can have his room.' The reception looks warily at the children, who seem to be multiplying by the second. 'Yes, but it's only a single room ... it only has a single bed ... for one person,' she adds helpfully. 'So what?' says the woman, 'we'll manage.'"

It happened to me. The book was called In Search of the Craic by Colin Irwin - a fairly entertaining account of "one man's pub crawl through Irish music". The author travelled around Ireland and visited all the well-known traditional music events. As I had been working at a hotel that hosted a big pipe festival I looked up the chapter describing this particular event, and almost choked on my airport latte as I read this short passage.

As the receptionist in question, I can attest to the truth and accuracy of this part of the story. The children were in fact innumerable but I did end up giving them  the single room, with the single bed, for one person,  just so I could finally go home and have that foaming pint.