In Oxford I am greeted by a receptionist whose accent suggested that her parents were Lady Penelope and the Monopoly Man. I go up to my room to find two glass bottles of water - fancy. I crack one open but hear an unwelcome hiss. I should have checked the label, this is the sparkling one. Now I’m going to have to drink the whole thing because I’m not going to waste it. Ah well, I decide to start off with some still water anyway - I open the second bottle and again hear the pressure release as the fizz bubbles up.

That evening I drank two litres of sparkling water. As well as drinking several pints of lager. As well as eating a large madras curry. The following day I was so conspicuously inflated that I was worried someone would attempt to frack me.

It’s probably fortunate for the entire human population that I ate breakfast alone.

My buffet strategy began with a slice of bread - a good foundation. I then realised there wasn’t a toaster. I persevered and headed to the cooked section - beans, mushrooms (not from a can), and... that was it. The eggs had all been taken by the coach load of noisy American tourists. Cold bread, beans and a mushroom is not a breakfast, so I had to go off piste and throw in a bowl of yoghurty fruit and some watermelon. As I turned to leave with my precarious stack, I spotted some hard boiled eggs and grabbed them.

The dining room was full so I ate breakfast in the empty bar, where I was on display in a bay window. For half an hour I was an advert for their breakfast service. A gassy, bleary-eyed scruff sitting in front of an uneasy coalition between the continental and the English. And yet, despite their differences and tensions, and despite the unwanted American influence, they were still greater than the sum of their parts. Contrary to popular belief, breakfast does not mean Brexit.