Five stars, says the brochure. 'Nonsense,' I say to my staff as I begin my tour of duty as manager of the hotel. 'Make that five smiles.' Much more important, I think. I am going to be tough and this is a good time to start. The guests at Chewton Glen have to know who is boss.
'Clock in,' says the managing director.
'Clock in? Me? I'm supposed to be the manager.'
'Clock in,' he says.
It is a gesture of equality that doesn't fit in with the air of élitism that goes with the name, one of those hotels far more people know about than have ever visited - an establishment nestling in the Hampshire countryside eight or nine miles from Bournemouth.
I decide not to alter the clocking-in rule. This is a place brimful with tradition and I have to be careful. But there are going to be changes all right. I'm the governor, after all. If only for a day.
The idea of being boss goes hand in hand with that word 'manager'. Everyone who has ever stayed at a top hotel knows that the manager is king. Or, at least, Crown Prince to the owner of the establishment.
He may come round to see if you're enjoying his hospitality, but there's something foreboding about his presence along the corridors, in the entrance lobby or talking to the guests at dinner. If he's doing his job properly, it should be you who hopes that he's happy. If he is, then it's probably a pretty good hotel.
It's that smile factor, I mention at my first meeting in the job. If you think that the porters , waiters or chambermaids really mean it when they say they hope you're having a good time, they'll smile a lot.
'We have to exploit that,' I declare at the meeting. 'We have to let people know that our staff are smiling.' It is my first executive decision.
I did know that I had left it late for a career change. There wasn't a lot of time to go the usual route - starting as a pantry boy, rising to a room-service waiter, having a go at the reception desk, taking my turn as a food and beverage manager. I have to cover a lot of ground in 12 hours.
It isn't all glamour. At least, not at 7.30am, a time with which I am not overly familiar. But this rather lovely 60-bedroom hotel standing in its own grounds - golf course and croquet pitch included - needs looking after and I realise that sacrifices have to be made.
I put on my regulation manager's blue suit, polish my shoes - the footwear of Peter Crome, the managing director, who is, in effect, general manager, are somewhat bigger, so I decide not to step into them for too long - and set to work on behalf of all those needy people who booked into Chewton Glen.
7.30am is precisely the time I am expected to clock-in - along with the deputy manager, the chef, the doorkeeper, the chamber maids.
It is, says Crome, only right. 'You can't tell people off for being late if you don't do yourself what they are expected to do.' I am not planning to tell anyone off. Honest. But this is a democracy after all (which hotels decidedly are not, but that's beside the point).
The clock adjoins the massive, sparkling kitchens. 'The heart of the hotel,' says my mentor. There are pictures of all the employees - including Crome. A quick look over the kitchen, watch the breakfasts being prepared and then to...
8am: The office. The computer is switched on. There are emails to be gone through. Nothing very significant, I note (thinks: hope Crome feels the same way). There are people booking for next year's summer holidays, a note from a man in Canada wanting a job, a sales report from the firm in London who go visiting prospective customers on my behalf - good results, I note.
It's all interrupted at...
9am (a time of which I have more personal experience): I see new guests arriving.
'My' office is situated behind french doors leading on to the elegant flower-draped drive, down which the arrivals come. A porter is there to welcome them. But I have to be there, too, if I can.
I dash over. 'Welcome,' I say. 'How are you? I hope you had a good journey.' Astonishing, I think, how quickly I master the lines. Crome, of course, has rather more experience and knew the words better. He remembers to say, 'I hope you have a very enjoyable stay with us.' Gee, I wish I'd said that.
Then I get worried. The porter has vanished. Crome offers to show them to their room. That, I could have done. 'Let me take your cases.' I didn't wish I'd said that. Clocking in is one thing. Carrying luggage, surely not. 'Oh yes,' says Crome, who was previously manager at the Savoy and at St Andrews. 'No manager should regard that as beneath him.' I was about to succumb after muttering another question to the guests who had driven in their Bentley from Belgium. Fortunately, the porter arrives in time to take the bags.
9.15am: I go with the couple to their room - so large, neither realises the other one is in there at the same time. Two balconies. Bathroom, twin sinks, big bath and, in a gesture of togetherness I'd never seen before, twin showers. They say they are satisfied. If they hadn't been, I'd have been tempted to roll up my sleeves and invite the gentleman outside, but managers in five-star (sorry five-smile) hotels are not expected to do that. Chewton Glen is decidedly not Fawlty Towers.
9.30am: I escape in time for a meeting. Discuss the arrival of new guests, including the lady and gentleman from Belgium and five new unrelated people called Smith and four called Day. I hazard the thought that those names might not be on the people's birth certificates. I am assured that they don't need to do that sort of thing any more. The Bank of Bermuda has a group in. I'm told that five are classified as VIPs (which means special service, a bottle of champagne, flowers and fruit.). There's a wedding today. The bride is in room 42. The bridegroom has not yet arrived. We're pleased to know that a couple who come for one night have cancelled their week abroad and are staying at Chewton Glen instead. Andrew, today's duty manager, promises to look after them. But what about that wedding? Stuart Van Dam, the man in charge of functions, says there's nothing to worry about. Besides, there's a wedding meeting this afternoon to discuss future wedding policy.
Things are going well, it seems. The night before, Peter received the Conde NastBest Hotel And Spa In The UK award. My staff smile appreciatively.
The health club manager, Clive McNash, reports nobody has actually been boiled alive in his department and that they're serving carrot soup in the restaurant overlooking the swimming pool - 4ft 6in deep throughout, but long enough to need binoculars to see the other end. We agree that every guest enjoys being met at the door. 'It's the one moment when people feel vulnerable,' says Crome. I feel distinctly vulnerable myself at this stage.
There's a phone call from HM Customs and Excise. They want to know about the aeroplane that was seen near the golf course..I have to ask the groundsman if he has noticed anything. He says he hasn't, but one guest wants to come in his helicopter. A spot is sorted out near the car park.
We have to talk about gifts to long-staying guests.
10am: The others go and my secretary, Angela Day, arrives. I decide I don't want to change the pens provided in each room. A firm wants to sell me a new line. They would cost more than £1 each - and since they usually check out at round about the same time as the guests, I make my second executive decision. We won't buy them.
She asks me if I am interested in the subscription to a magazine promising funny lines for public speeches. I decide I don't need that sort of help - which may surprise the guests who recently attended my son's wedding.
10.30am: Somebody wants to book for the year 2002. We tell them the rate may change, but here's what the bill would be today. I choose the hotel's Christmas card. The maintenance man has problems with two clocks. I tell him I have every confidence in his ability to sort that out himself.
11.50am I go into the kitchen. The chef Peter Chevillard has justly won most of the awards for which he could possibly qualify. I ask him how he spells his name and notice it has only one 'l' on his tunic. I am shocked and demand he gets a new identification embroidered. 'Good morning, chef,' I say and smile at the 26 people waiting in the kitchen, go through the list of 56 staff actually serving the food that day. I don' take any samples, but I trust chef to serve the lunch, Chewton Glen style, which is pretty good.
I have a few minutes to spare. Peter Crome says this is when he writes his 'jolly old things' - individual notes of welcome to all the arrivals.
12.20pm: Walk through the hotel. Talk to guests having coffee on the terrace. I engage a party of four women who appear to be very happy. It's the fortieth birthday of one of them.
1pm: I'd like to pop my head round the morning room door, where the wedding ceremony is proceeding, but their privacy has to be respected. When the first lap of my tour is complete, the wedding guests are sipping champers on the terrace. Time to put the morning room back to its usual position. All the chairs have to be replaced the way they were before, a table has to be moved, curtains straightened. A lampshade needs adjusting. 'Aren't there people here to do that sort of thing?' I ask Crome. 'There are,' he says reassuringly, 'but they are busy. I want it to be just right - now.'
An American couple are planning lunch. I recommend the smoked salmon. They accept my advice.
1.30pm: Plan a snack in the health club. But before that, there's a problem. A guest is arranging his father's birthday party that night and wants to serenade him.
'Do we, by any chance, have a violin he could borrow?' Crome, who plays in a local orchestra, produces his own instrument as if he were offering to lend the man a plug adapter. Someone else wants some binoculars. Well, of course, Crome has these, too.We look outside. It appears that the bride herself is going round the guests, serving canapés - 'unless it's an over-dressed waitress,' says Crome.
2.30pm: Wedding meeting. This goes on for longer than was originally planned. There's a lot to do, including selecting a new brochure. Business is much better than it used to be - a five-fold increase in four years.
We have to limit weddings to small functions - mustn't spoil it for our other guests - and there's no dancing allowed. The new brochure could say that. I suggest that we should emphasise only the positive aspects - which I think is my third executive decision, since nobody said otherwise. The brochure could also include details of honeymoons, but I think that was a different matter entirely. I believe the meeting agrees with that, too.
There is another problem: you can't have little girl bridesmaids - because children under six are banned from Chewton Glen. I'm told that few weddings at the hotel have bridesmaids anyway.
'What do we charge?' I ask. For the ceremony, £424; £125.20 a head for up to 50 guests. This takes in the cost of every item on offer, a three-course dinner or lunch, canapés and wedding cake (costed out at the rate of £2.75 a slice ) but we get back to the brochure. I suggest that the menus be displayed as they would in the restaurant, not crowded on one page. Agreed. Another executive decision. 'What do we call the brochure?' 'A Truly Memorable Wedding,' says someone. 'Aren't all weddings memorable?' I ask. I suggest 'A Chewton Glen Wedding.' Everyone agrees. Executive decision number 5.
3.45pm: Visit laundry room. Pleased to note that all the linens are washed in-house. More economical than the previous policy of leasing them from another company. I agree that £20,000 spent on what looks like a large mangle, which presses the sheets, tablecloths and napkins, is a snip at the price.
I check supplies and note that there are vats of enough washing liquid to start a Chewton Glen supermarket, although I would rather it remain an hotel. I check on the quantity of towels in use - 300 to 400 in the health club, 300 in the rooms.
4.15pm: See the florist. She is happy that all the flowers are in place and the orders are ready for tomorrow.
5.15pm: Go into a couple of empty rooms (there are really just two of these; none at all tomorrow). All's well.
5.45pm: Welcome more guests. Crome doesn't have anything to worry about from me in this respect. He's got it down to a fine art and that could be the reason people feel at home so quickly. It's very easy to look unctuous. He does it just right. Plainly his time as a pantry boy paid off
6.15pm: Go behind the front desk. Take call from prospective guests. 'Do you have a room for Christmas?' We have one suite available. I have the feeling that the man wants to kiss me.
7.15pm: Go into the main restaurant and into the adjoining conservatory.
7.30pm: Welcome the first guests. Go through the menu with an elderly American gentleman, who by now has much more energy than I.
'What about dinner?' asks Peter Crome, who I don't think ever has time to eat himself. It's the most welcome question I've been asked all day. But first I go back to my room. My wife has had her massages, reflexology and is ready for dinner. I look at the king-size bed with a longing.
We go to dinner. I tell Crome that his job is safe.
'Don't bother to clock off,' he says. That's a relief. I was afraid he expected me to punch a card tomorrow morning, too.
Fact file
Chewton Glen (01425 275341, fax 01425 272310) is at New Milton, Hampshire. A three-day Relax, Unwind and Detox break costs £220 per person per night, including breakfast and table d'hte dinner with use of health club and golf.
Normal rates vary from £235 a night for a garden room (room only Sunday to Thursday; £255 for Friday to Saturday; £365 and £385 inclusive) to £795 in the Marryat Suite, fully inclusive at weekends, £765 midweek and £635, room only.
