I take a shower and worry that I might be part of some warped magic trick...

The bathroom in my hotel room is small. There is definitely not much room to swing a cat so I'm glad I didn't bring Tibbles with me – he doesn't like it when I grab his tail and take him for a spin.

It's a pretty standard bathroom in all but one respect: the shower curtain is bright red and it put me on guard as I stripped off and stood there having already been frightened by the magnified mirror that brought me up close and personal with myself. Nothing worse, especially when a shave is required. Now, however, there's a bigger threat, the shower cubicle.

I stepped in half expecting Debbie McGee to pull the shower curtain across for me, but there was nobody there but me so I had to do it myself. It was a pleasant shower, until I realised that the water wasn't escaping down a plug hole but slowly filling up on the verge of overspilling on to the bathroom floor. The last time that happened was in a posh hotel in the South of France, Cannes to be precise, and I had to use all the towels in the room to soak up the water.

It's brighter than it looks...

After a good old sprinkling of hot water and liberal splashings of shower gel, I prepared myself for the moment when I drew back the curtain and returned to the room. I turned off the shower, turned to face the curtain and hoped and prayed there wouldn't be an audience of women seated cross-legged outside awaiting my appearance. Fortunately I was alone as I searched for a towel to dry myself.

But then a horrendous thought: what if my room is the only one with a red shower curtain? What if all occupants of room 109 past and present are unknowingly part of some lewd cabaret act for the other guests? Perhaps they're all downstairs now watching on a flatscreen television fixed to the wall in the breakfast room as I exit the shower and faff around looking for a towel. I'd soon find out as my next stop was the breakfast room. I just hope nobody smirks as I walk in; if they do then I'll know the awful truth.

The breakfast room is on the ground floor and when I enter nobody says a word, nobody smiles. I'm in the clear. Or am I? Perhaps that's the deal. Perhaps the general manager briefs all the spectators not to give the game away when I come down for breakfast. I scrutinise the Japanese girl sitting diagonally across from me for any signs of mirth, but she's a true professional, probably a veteran of the hotel's shower room scam. She won't break that easily, I think, as I find and self-consciously serve myself some Sugar Puffs and brew up a peppermint tea.

"Room number?" says one of the hotel's breakfast room staff. Room number! As if she doesn't know! Perhaps that is the cue for when the other guests can let go and guffaw loud and heartily at my misfortune for quite literally being the butt of the joke. But there is no reaction. I continue with my breakfast; I gently sip the peppermint tea, I find some scrambled egg, make myself another peppermint tea, play with my iphone and then it is time to go. They really have only one more chance to let rip as I leave the room. But no, I hear nothing and conclude that the whole sordid affair is nothing more than a figment of my own warped imagination.