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Humans need routine to cope in this complicated world. It keeps us from questioning the deeper meaning of life and, for some, it allows contentment to prevail. Our dependence is such that after only a couple of days away from the work regime, some of us end up in paranoid fits, hunched secretively over our crackberries in dark corners, muttering. How do business travellers cope without the structure of conventional employment? Breakfast. For me, breakfast had never been more than a socially acceptable way to guzzle the four cups of coffee required to keep both eyes open at the same time. I’d never seen the point in wasting time soldiering through wholemeal oats or shortening my life yet further with a fry up. However, as a traveller I’m restricted to hotels, where the coffee machines are in public places and someone else has spent the time cooking. So it seemed a good time to give breakfast a chance.

I have to admit that it’s been a roaring success. Without getting all daytime TV about it, I feel better in myself and, against physics, I’ve lost weight. Having previously thought that breakfast simply involved putting expensive pig feed into a bowl and scattering it with dried apricots picked by GM-free cherubs, it turns out there’s more to it abroad.

The first challenge is to find the breakfast hall, which is harder than it sounds when in jet-lagged Neanderthal mode. My Swedish is so bad that I once managed to walk straight into an unlit cleaning cupboard, only to 
be followed by an equally disorientated chap from Belgium. The chambermaid definitely needed some convincing.

The fun doesn’t stop on arrival at the dining room where, more often than not, you’re greeted by a hateful buffet. From experience, the best strategy is to head straight for the coffee machine with two mugs, as 
if dining with a friend, then retreat to a table from which to observe the correct etiquette in safety. It’s 
what Inspector Clouseau would have done.

Once you’ve worked out where the cutlery is, how not to queue-jump or get stuck in the yoghurt and celery section, the next step is to identify the grub on offer. Appearances can be deceptive. Deep-fried balls of sausage-meat are a favourite in Bavaria, but they look remarkably similar to deep-fried onion-and-something objects you get in Finland. Items that an Englishman would presume to be crispy potato croquettes are more often cold, fish-based abominations that even the brave Ray Mears couldn’t handle.

The final challenge is paying — included? optional? card? signature? nod? run? No doubt a woman would ask, but trial and error keeps routine at bay for us wild-at-heart male Woodstock types.

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