I’m thankful to be making TV in lockdown. But living in hotels like Alan Partridge is no picnic

Like Steve Coogan’s character, my extended hotel stay is borne of necessity. But at the risk of sounding a bit wet, I didn’t know that living in luxury could be such hard work, writes Jenny Eclair

Nothing is open in the hotel – the bar, restaurants, pool and gym are all shut (Getty Images)

I’m living in a hotel at the moment. I know, get me. Who do I think I am, Coco Chanel? Notoriously, the fashion designer lived in her own private suite at the Ritz in Paris for 34 years; just imagine the minibar bill.

Of course, it’s not just Coco. Over the years, loads of other famous people have shacked up in hotels. The reclusive Howard Hughes stayed for over three decades in the Beverly Hills Hotel, preferring to stay indoors, watching movies completely starkers with a pink hotel napkin draped over his privates.

Closer to home, Peter Sellers put down roots at the Dorchester in London for years and who could ever forget Alan Partridge’s 183-day stay in the Linton Travel Tavern in Cambridgeshire?

Like Partridge, my extended hotel stay is borne of necessity rather than choice. I’m working away from home because despite being in second lockdown, some TV programmes are still being made.

Mine is a small-budget afternoon life-drawing show with contestants, a cash prize and a resident art expert on hand to give advice and encouragement. There is a skeleton crew and limited production team, everyone wears masks unless actually speaking on camera and a one-way system operates in communal spaces. Hand-san is available at regular intervals and a two-metre distance is kept at all times, to the extent that I feel like Mariah Carey when corridors are cleared for me to “come through”.

However (inevitably) there is still a slight sense of risk and when the news broke of the Covid outbreak on Strictly last week, I will admit to a brief flurry of panic.

But while working in the studio with all its accompanying restrictions is a bit strange, what is really playing with my head is the hours when I’m not working and I find myself back in my hotel, looking out from my room on the 22nd floor at a city which is currently in hibernation. Hundreds of feet below me is the closed multi-screen cinema, a fancy looking yoga studio and Manchester’s umpteen bars and restaurants.

Nothing is open in the hotel either, the bar, restaurants, pool and gym are all shut. Sometimes I fantasise about creeping down to reception in the middle of the night and finding the keys to the pool room and having a quick dip. On other nights, I’m tempted to break into the bar and raid the optics.

Breakfast is handed out in plastic boxes a la airline meals at reception on the ground floor. When I first arrived, I would take this box back up to my sky-high room with a view and pretend I was travelling first class on a plane, but the charm wears thin after a couple of days. Living in the middle of a dead city is weird. In London, I live a couple of miles outside of the city centre and my local village – notably the meat, fish and cheese shops – is still bustling in this second lockdown because it’s residential and there are families with children and dogs.

I have yet to see a dog in Manchester. Sometimes I go for a walk and try and find my bearings; after all, I was a drama student here 40 years ago. Where was that wine bar where I performed lunchtime theatre, or the gay club where I first gigged? The place has changed so much. I soon get nervous and retreat back to the sanctuary of my temporary home, where the residents are let in by staff who know us by name and lock the door again behind us.

This is not a hotel as we know it, no one is drunk for starters. Even on a Friday night there are no raucous bursts of laughter, no stumbling down the corridors and traipsing back to reception for a new key card. With the restaurant shut and the room service menu limited (especially for someone with a boring tomato allergy) takeaway deliveries are actively encouraged, with staff bringing up your food parcels and leaving them outside your door. How exciting, I thought initially, I never have takeaways at home. It turns out that after a week of experimenting, there’s a reason why. Because night after night of monosodium glutamate and meals that arrive looking like they’ve been thrown at a wall can get a girl down, and for the past few nights I’ve been craving steamed broccoli and a simple piece of fish.

It also turns out that I quite like eating off a plate with metal cutlery, and that pepper from a grinder makes all the difference.

I realise that, despite feeling like I’m living on the Marie Celeste, I’m incredibly spoiled. My room is clean and spacious with a fridge and ensuite bathroom complete with bath, oh joy of joys. But at the risk of sounding a bit wet, I seriously didn’t know that living in luxury could be such hard work and that days off could be quite so lonely.