I once worked as a lobby boy at a hotel in the UK, where my afternoon tasks revolved around fulfilling guest requests for extra pillows, blankets, and similar items. The process was simple: reception would jot down requests in a notebook (e.g., “Room XY – pillow”), and I’d check it periodically, handle the tasks, and tick them off when done.
One evening during dinner, the hotel boss left a note in the book: “Room XXX – hot water tap is not working.” I went to check the issue and, sure enough, the hot tap wasn’t working. I wrote back in the book: “Can’t fix it, call a plumber.”
On my next round, I saw a new note written in bold and underlined three times: “FIX IT NOW.”
Challenge accepted, Boss.
I returned to the room and attempted to fix the tap. UK sinks often have separate taps for hot and cold water, and this hot water tap simply wouldn’t cooperate. I fiddled with it, trying different things, until—pop! The pipe leading from the wall to the sink burst free, unleashing a torrent of boiling hot water onto the bathroom floor.
Panic mode: ON.
The reception line was busy, so I sprinted through the hotel, shouting:
“Room XXX, PLUMBER, NOW!”
I rushed back to the room. With no way to stop the geyser, I perched on the bathtub’s edge, desperately holding the pipe to redirect the water into the tub. After three agonizing minutes, the boss poked his head into the bathroom, went pale at the sight, and bolted without saying a word.
Five minutes later, the fire alarms blared—triggered by the steam filling the room. Luckily, staff quickly informed the guests that it was a false alarm, so there was no mass evacuation.
Ten minutes after that, someone finally shut off the water supply to the entire hotel wing. The plumber arrived shortly after and fixed the issue in three minutes flat.
Relieved, I turned my attention to cleanup. Surprisingly, the bathroom wasn’t as flooded as I’d feared. But when I checked the floor below, the real extent of the damage became clear.
The room underneath had a dim bathroom light. Curious, I turned it on and realized why: the bowl-shaped lamp cover on the ceiling was brimming with water, the lightbulb sitting happily submerged.
Oh no.
Light off. I drained the lamp, cleaned that bathroom, and went down one more floor to investigate further.
There, on the ground floor, was the true disaster: a collapsed ceiling in the corridor, a massive 2×3 meter section lying in pieces on the carpet.
After spending 15 minutes in a sauna-like bathroom and nearly an hour cleaning and clearing rubble, I finally stepped outside for air. My roommate walked by, took one look at my soaked, disheveled state, and asked:
“Did someone puke on you?”
From that day on, whenever I said something couldn’t be fixed, the staff believed me—and called a professional without hesitation.
