Kafka was an architect

And so I arrive in Doha around midnight local time. It is pleasantly warm as I cram into the coach that drives forever around the airport site as if it is looking for the terminal but doesn't know where to find it. Eventually we arrive and disembark into a deserted arrivals hall where we are forced to process to and fro through the cattle barriers that might make sense when there are a thousand people crowding through but are a rather silly merry-go-round as we troop first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left and so forth, before finally arriving before the weary official who will tell us which desk to proceed to - as if we could not see which immigration official was waving us over to his counter.

But there is no point in being impatient, because they are all the same, whether you are in Boston or Barcelona, and you are bound to get it wrong even if you take the greatest care to read the small print. I had checked on-line about visa regulations, because I had chosen an inexpensive city hotel rather than a 5-star hotel at the airport itself. I was assured I would not need a visa - and I double-checked with the airline. I could almost hear the smiling shoulder shrug and dismissive gestures in the reassuring responses. 

Of course, what they really meant to tell me when they replied with a cheery negative, was that Immigration would happily take my money off me at the airport - no need to pay anything in advance. The £18 fee, when taken with the cost of the taxi to and from the city, somewhat reduced the price advantage of a cheaper city hotel against the glitz of the airport Marriott.

When I arrived at the hotel I was met with a cheery smile from the man behind the desk. The horrendous panache of decor is a nightmare would make even Kafka squirm. In one corner, the marble floor tiles ran up the wall as if the builders had a couple of boxes left over and decided to use them up. 

The loo in my bathroom was squeezed next to the shower cubicle, but unlike the one in the photo was installed sideways, so that it was impossible to sit down because the side screen of the shower was in the way. The shower itself ran either scalding or icy and was surrounded internally with exposed pipework that had attracted grime over the years. The bed took up the entire room, leaving no space for a chair for the desk, and the two of the three electric points flickered worryingly. The airconditioning power supply emitted a threatening flash when I turned it on, and then died peacefully.

So much for a leisurely and relaxing break between flights! After being totally dead to the world when I collapsed into bed, and after a breakfast assortment (bean stew, sausage Chow Mein and cornflakes) that gave a whole new dimension to the word "eclectic," I think I shall make my way back to the airport and find a quiet corner.

And while I'm there I'll change my hotel for my return flights in May.

Grim hotels provide interesting travellers' tales, but on balance I'd rather not have one to write home about.