I'd love to say I've just returned from a "dirty weekend" in Brighton but that's not exactly true. A "dirty weekend" implies something naughty. Something a bit racy involving "Do Not Disturb" signs, room service and crumpled sheets. By the way, if there are any children reading this then a "dirty weekend" - or a DW as I shall call it from now on - is when the weather outside is so filthy that Mummy and Daddy decide to spend the whole weekend in bed catching up on some well deserved sleep. Bless 'em. They need it at their age.

My DW was in Brighton, but it included my wife and two kids and spanned a Monday to Thursday. A "clean family mid-week break" doesn't really have the same gravitas does it? I'm not saying it wasn't enjoyable; quite the opposite in fact. We had a brilliant time but a part of me did hanker back to those selfishly carefree days of my youth. Days when eight hours sleep was considered a nap, a good night out lasted until lunchtime on Sunday, and X-Factor wasn't the only place to find talent on a Saturday night.

The one time I did go for a real DW in Brighton was when I was in my mid-twenties. Gillian was my girlfriend back then; not yet crowned my wife. It was in the days when we both looked down on small children, had shares in Durex, and frowned at mothers pushing buggies at weekends when they should have done their shopping mid-week and not inconvenienced real workers. How attitudes change.

It was a cold, Friday evening in Autumn when we drove down to the Sussex coast after a hard week's work in our respective offices. Mine at No 1, London Bridge, and Gillian's inside her company car as she traversed the length and breadth of our capital city - Greater London being her patch as a Sales Manager for a large food company. We'd booked a Romantic Getaway weekend in a large hotel on the seafront by Brighton pier. Romantic Getaway meant two nights of 4 star luxury at a 3 star price with a free rose as the romantic bit. Champagne was not included.

Arriving after dark outside the front entrance, we were tired, crumpled and grumpy after queuing in traffic most of the way there. A smartly dressed doorman in the livery of the hotel tapped on my window, so I wound it down.

'Do you have a booking here, Sir?' asked Mr Doorman.

'Yes we do, it's under the name Barley.'

'Very well, Sir. If I could trouble you to open your boot, I'll unload your luggage for you.'

Gillian and I looked at each other. 'Ah,' we both said in unison before scuttling out of our car and round to the boot. Mr Doorman had beaten us to it and was waiting with an empty, ornate brass trolley. I unlocked and opened the boot to our car with trepidation.

When I said our car, I meant Gillian's company Vauxhall Cavalier. A mid-range, dependable at high mileage, model often given to Sales Reps back then to use and abuse. And Gillian certainly did that. Which is probably a good point at which to relate several facts about Sales Reps' cars that are pertinent to this tale.

1. Sales reps tend to use their cars as their offices
2. Our story is set well before the days of paperless billing and laptops
3. Sales reps like to eat on the move and are not too fussy about their food
4. Any Sales Rep worth their commission, stores a varied selection of breakages, and out of date returned goods in their boot - to barter with other reps in retail outlet car parks as a freebie perk of the job

Hence Gillian's Cavalier was strewn with invoices, sales targets, chocolate muffin wrappers, promotional literature, empty juice cartons, packets of spare tights and discarded files across the back seat. And her boot had been turned into a sort of cash and carry on wheels.

I couldn't fault Mr Doorman's professionalism. He didn't utter a single word when the boot lid was lifted and he was confronted by a crate of Kenco coffee jars (lids damaged but otherwise sound), two boxes of twenty four tubes of toothpaste (courtesy of the Colgate rep at the back of Somerfield that lunchtime), one catering size sack of out-of-date coffee beans and a teddy bear called Eric. Oh, and there were two travel bags and assorted plastic bags filled with our clothes and stuff for the weekend; packed hastily before we left our terraced house in Barking in the forlorn hope we might beat the traffic. And before you ask, Eric was Gillian's teddy, not mine. Personally, I don't believe in teddys. I have a sheep of the cuddly variety called Clive instead.

'Which of these bags would Sir and Madam like me to take?' asked Mr Doorman.

Gillian part unzipped one of the travel bags and stuffed Eric inside. His head and two paws poked out. She handed it to Mr Doorman and I passed him the other travel bag too. As they were being lifted onto the trolley, we rummaged through the plastic carriers to work out which ones we really needed before handing them over. I closed the boot to everyone's relief.

Mr Doorman clicked his fingers and I promoted him to Mr Head Doorman when a uniformed junior magically appeared from behind a pillar and identified himself as Mr Valet Parking Man with the words, 'I will take care of your car for you, Sir. If you would be so kind as to give me your keys.' I handed over Gillian's keys. Mr Valet Parking Man paused for a second at the sight of a fluffy pink fairy dangling off the key fob.

Mr Head Doorman frowned and pointedly said, 'Ahem,' making Mr Valet Parking Man remember his training and jerk into action. He opened our car's front door, stopped to brush the cake crumbs off the driver's seat, hopped in, and drove off with that rigid backed chauffeur look that spoke of dignity, poise and the need to keep his white starched shirt off our chocolate smeared upholstery.

'Follow me, please,' said Mr Head Doorman. As he led us inside, he pushed the tall trolley now laden with six bulging carrier bags - of assorted supermarket lineage - and two fake leather holdalls, one with a teddy bear poking out and waving at passers-by with both paws.

Check-in was efficient and in no time at all we were ensconced in a beautifully appointed double room with a lovely sea view - provided you walked down the hall corridor to the front of the hotel to find it. To be fair, our bedroom may have been rear facing but it was a lovely room; deservedly 4 star with a king sized bed crisply made and turned down with the precision of a Victorian nurse. We had everything a young couple needed for a DW. Time to skip to the next morning...

...the next morning, we had a problem. Now I've never been much of a complainer. I would far rather put up with something than cause a fuss, but my wife, then girlfriend, is the exact opposite.

For example, we once visited an Italian restaurant before seeing a concert at Wembley. We had warned the staff we were pushed for time and could only eat there if the turnaround was within an hour. They assured us it would be, so we ordered our meal. The waitress then promptly - or rather not so promptly - forgot half our drinks order, had to double check our food order, and then served us only after a forty minute wait when we discovered we were one meal short. Gillian immediately said, 'Stop eating now!' and we all waited while she complained to the manager. The manager cared as little as his waitress, so Gillian didn't care to stay, and ordered us all out of the restaurant - joined by several other diners who were annoyed at the service too - leaving nine perfectly formed pizzas at our table with just the one mouthful bitten out of each.

So when Gillian said we had to complain to the hotel management, we had to complain to the hotel management. Only she wanted me to do it, as the booking was in my name and she felt the nature of our complaint would be better broached by someone with the title of Doctor.

'Can I speak with the manager, please,' I asked the receptionist, putting on my most serious voice.

'Perhaps I can help, Sir,' said the pretty, young receptionist. 'What is it regarding?'

I faltered until I felt an elbow in my side from Gillian. 'I think it best I speak with the manager. It's about a complaint we have...on a somewhat delicate matter.'

'Could I have your name and room number please, Sir?'

'Doctor Barley, Room 212.'

'Yes, Dr Barley,' said the receptionist. 'Certainly, Dr Barley. Please take a seat, Dr Barley, while I inform the Duty Manager you wish to speak with her.' A Ph.D., albeit in Cosmic Ray Physics, does have its uses on occasion.

We went to sit where she indicated; at a free table surrounded by leather chairs in the centre of the opulently decorated foyer. After five minutes, a door opened at one side of the reception desk and a slim lady wearing a tailored black business suit emerged carrying a leather bound notepad. She glanced at the receptionist, who pointed our way, before she walked purposefully over to our table and introduced herself.

'Hello, I'm Miss Trimble, the Duty Manager.' We shook hands. Sitting down, Miss Trimble crossed her legs, opened her notebook and said, 'I understand you have a problem. We take complaints here very seriously and I hope I can resolve any issues to our mutual satisfaction.' She smiled. 'What is the nature of your complaint, Dr Barley?'

Gillian stiffened as she waited for me to speak. I gulped. An elbow in my side made me blurt, 'Underpants!' only I said it a little louder than I intended and a passing elderly couple looked at us in surprise.

Miss Trimble's smile turned from businesslike to "Oh no, not another nutter" mode. 'I'm sorry, Dr Barley, did you say underpants?'

'Yes. We woke up this morning and found a pair of strange underpants in our bed.'

'Only they weren't ours,' said Gillian before assuming a tightlipped scowl.

'And where are these underpants now,' asked Miss Trimble. The pen in her hand seemed unsure whether to spoil a nice new sheet of paper on her notepad with the word underpants.

'In the waste paper bin in our room,' I said.

'And where exactly did you find the offending item?' said Miss Trimble. I could see that she'd opted to write "unwanted garment" on her pad.

I looked at Gillian and she nodded once. 'They were at the bottom of our bed,' I said, 'amongst the sheets and blankets.' I should have stopped there but honesty was always my downfall. 'When I found them I just thought they were my wife's pants, so I threw them at her...' I trailed away as I realised throwing pants at your wife might not be the done thing in a 4 star hotel.

Miss Trimble scribbled '...threw garment at wife...' on her pad.

'What my boyfriend,' started Gillian, 'that is, Dr Barley, is trying to say is that he found a pair of pants in our bed mixed in with the bedclothes, and when he,' Gillian gave me a stern look, 'showed them to me, I informed him that I didn't wear Y-fronts and neither does he.'

'Really?' said Miss Trimble in surprise.

'That's right,' I said. 'I wear boxer shorts.' Gillian added another bruise to my side.

'On behalf of the hotel, I'd like to apologise,' said Miss Trimble. Her tone was concerned yet grave. I was impressed. 'I'll have the maid...' I thought she was about to say "shot" but instead she said, 'remove the item in question immediately.'

'We just thought you'd like to know,' said Gillian.

'We're not looking for compensation or anything,' I added and I meant it. After all, no harm had been done, apart from to Gillian's pride after wearing the said article on her head when I'd thrown it at her. However Miss Trimble took my words as a not so subtle hint.

'Of course not, Sir, but in the interests of customer satisfaction, I'd like to offer you both a complimentary meal in our restaurant this evening. If that is acceptable, I'll get you to sign off a complaint form saying you are happy that the issue has been resolved to your complete satisfaction.'

Gillian and I looked at each other. Our eyes shrieked, 'Result!'

So there you have it. Our DW in Brighton turned out to be slightly grubbier than anticipated, but we got a free meal out of it - although we did have to suffer the stares of every member of the kitchen and waiting staff who wanted to see for themselves the "couple with the pants in their bed".

That was two decades ago. In our few days in Brighton this week, things were a lot cleaner. Saying that. We may be older, married, and have a family in tow, but it was still Brighton and there was a lock on our bedroom door. No pants this time, but hey, sometimes that can be a bonus.