The Jumeirah Carlton Tower is a proper five-star hotel. Its rooms cost up to
%26pound;5,000 a night and overlook Cadogan Gardens, in the heart of Knightsbridge.
They are furnished with big sofas, exotic orchids, half the world%26rsquo;s marble
and bathrobes so fluffy, you could survive a 10-storey fall in one.
Down in the lobby, fur-coated women soothe away the strains of a morning%26rsquo;s
designer shopping with champagne and cake, while olive-skinned businessmen
shake hands on billion-buck deals the way you or I would shake hands on who
gets the last croissant.
There is a harpist, a murder of smiling receptionists, a gaggle of sprinting
porters and, most important for the purposes of this story, four concierges.
Three of them are wearing a gold key brooch on their lapel, signifying
membership of the Clefs d%26rsquo;Or, the elite society of the concierge world. One
of them isn%26rsquo;t. His badge reads: %26ldquo;Matt - Trainee.%26rdquo; That would be me.
My training has consisted of a brief demonstration of how to read a map upside
down and learning the magic, time-buying phrase: %26ldquo;Certainly, sir, I%26rsquo;ll look
into that and call you straight back.%26rdquo; I don%26rsquo;t feel prepared.
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