People assume I get bored, but I enjoy the solitude. I like the hourly walks through the quiet corridors and listening to the rain on the windows while enjoying a cup of tea. I relish finishing a good book or watching the birds in the car park feeding on the muffins I put out yesterday.
The tiredness is the hardest. Sometimes I have a good routine and my sleep is not affected. Other times, I walk into doors, zombie-like, and occasionally I’ve been surprised to find that I’ve actually made it home. My husband tells me I should find a new job, and I have been applying for some since I began working here. Night receptionist is the death knell for a CV: it says key holder, not stakeholder. It says, I live in the dark like a monster, or a kook; no good with the sun.
Most guests regard me the way a cow would look at you, their eyes casting me into irrelevance. I’m good with people, I just hate them: the stupid girls who will not take care of themselves; the disgusting businessmen who sit in the bar and speak about women like animals; the seemingly intelligent, successful people who will deteriorate into slobbering wrecks and expect me to sympathise. I don’t.
Though my job perpetuates my hatred of people, I am still compassionate towards those in need. I never think twice about letting someone in from the cold, or giving away a free room if it is a genuine cause. But if the intercom goes off at 2am and I see a couple who can barely stand, I’ll more than likely say the hotel is full even when it isn’t, especially if I’ve just made a tea. I don’t like being disturbed.
• Tell us what you’re really thinking at mind@theguardian.com
