“Oh look! A crocodile!” my six-year-old daughter Zenya squeals. We’d planned an action-packed itinerary in the Midlands, but spotting safari animals isn’t part of it. She jumps on the bed and puts her arms around it, because this crocodile isn’t deadly – it’s made out of rolled-up towels.
“Come and look at this!” my nine-year-old son Ziggy calls from the massive living room next door, where a sofa bed is made up for him. He points to more towel art – a monkey in sunglasses, clipped to a wooden hanger. But it’s my 10-year-old Zayla who is the first to spot the real piece de resistance: white plates with the children’s names written on them in chocolate, on which stand chocolate sculptures sprayed in gold. “This is why I love hotels!” she says. “You never know what you’re going to find in the room when you arrive.”
