LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which I’m turfed out on to the street 

Readers often contact me, saying, ‘You live on a different planet.’ And, yes, it does sound glamorous, spending time in Marbella with the cast of TOWIE. Or travelling to Paris for the trial of John Galliano. Jetting off to the Oscars.

The reality? I was asked to cover the 30-hour queue for the British public to pay their respects to the Queen, and file past her coffin. If you are important or part of the Royal press pack or an MP, you were whizzed inside. Not me. It was like a Victoria Beckham catwalk show all over again: get to the end of the Elizabeth line! So, with my sandwich, I joined the queue early that week. The Telegraph had wheeled out Esther Rantzen, who intimated old mourners would die. That there would be ‘suffering’. None of which was true. I was walking past the coffin after just six hours of jolly banter, despite us all being asked repeatedly by Samaritans volunteers in fluoro tabards how our mental health was bearing up. Get a grip! The zigzag into Westminster Hall was almost empty. So, come 8pm, I was in London, having been on my feet since 6am, with nowhere to stay.

I had booked Soho House Kettner’s the next night, for a colleague’s leaving do, and had left my laptop and heavy case in storage. I walked back through Soho like an injured pigeon, feet hurting, tired, hungry. Nic, my assistant, had called earlier to beg for a room in the group, but no luck. She scoured every hotel website. Nothing. I collapsed at reception, told the young woman who knows me very well, as I stay almost once a week (I spent nearly £700 there recently to attend this newspaper’s 40th birthday party), that my story had been cut short, there was no 30-hour queue, and could I have a shower and sit in a corner to write my piece on my laptop until my room was ready the next morning. ‘Of course!’ she said.

I had dinner, drinks. I sat. At midnight, lights were turned on. ‘You will have to move to reception.’ Which I did. I sat there. Come 1am, the young man on duty overnight came over to say. ‘You have to leave. No one is allowed overnight without a room.’

‘But at 8pm the young lady said it was fine. I had dinner. I’m booked in tonight, already paid for. I had my wedding at Soho House’s Babington House in 2002. I stay here every week. I am loyal. You know me.’

‘Maybe you misheard her as you are deaf,’ he said.

Whhhaaaattttttt?

He called the manager, returned and shook his head. ‘So,’ I said, water running down my face. ‘You are turning a client of 20 years’ standing out into the night with nowhere to go. Everywhere is full because of the Queen’s funeral.’

‘There is nothing I can do.’

‘I’m never staying here again,’ I said.

‘Your room tomorrow… oh, tonight, sorry, is non-refundable.’*

The nice man who hails taxis came over, said he was trying to find me somewhere. Another male member of staff said they had found a room in Fleet Street. At nearly 2am, they put me in an Uber. The driver couldn’t find Fleet Street, let alone the hotel, and dumped me in the road. I finally found the Z Hotel. It was locked. I rang the bell, sobbing. Eventually, a young man unlocked it. He took about half an hour to check me in – I told him I could write a novel in the time it was taking – and take payment, and I descended to my room. It didn’t have a window. No cotton wool. A bar of soap the size of a stamp. Why are poor people deemed unworthy of shampoo? It was 3am. I’d been haemorrhaging money all day. I was unable to remove my mascara.

The next morning, I had to go down for breakfast, as there was no room service. I returned well before 11 to shower and pack. They had locked me out.

So please, never tell me my job is glamorous. That I get special treatment. That life is a round of parties and photo shoots. Never mind Charles. I filed copy on the afternoon my mum died.

*After a flurry of emails Soho House reimbursed me.