What is the worst thing a front desk clerk can say upon check-in at a favourite hotel?

A) “I’m really sorry but your room’s not ready yet as we had a wave of late check-outs this morning. Do you mind grabbing an early lunch and coming back in two hours?”
B) “I’m sorry (clatter of nervous nails across a well-worn keyboard), I can’t seem to find your reservation. Are you sure you booked at this particular property? (More nails across keyboard). You do know we have several sister hotels also in the area, so perhaps you booked in one of those by mistake?”
C) “Welcome back. It’s so lovely to see you again. We’ve got you a wonderful upgrade to one of our newly renovated suites. I think you are really going to love it as we worked with a great interior designer who really wanted to bring a bit of Bali mixed with Palm Springs to the Upper East Side.”

While none of the above are great openers, I think there’s nothing worse than having to confront a much-loved friend who’s had an appalling round of cosmetic surgery. Is it the discomfort of having to look at what was once a wonderful face full of lines, life and character that is so painful?

Or is it having to endure your own bad acting and inability to be brutally honest to a friend who now looks like a waxy mannequin with a look of permanent surprise?

Over the past decade, in hotels and villas large and small, city and country, tropical and Nordic, I’ve played lead role in countless performances of a show that I’ve dubbed What The Decorator Did. There may be variations to the script, but the cast is usually the same, featuring an over-excited public relations person and equally enthusiastic general manager eager to reveal their freshly renovated wings and just-completed junior suites by known architects, celebrity designers and nieces of the owner.

I play the loyal guest who’s been staying there for years and returns time and again because there’s a wonderful lived-in charm about the lurid yellow tiles on the pillars around the pool, the solid writing desks with their leather blotting pads and the well-worn bannisters oiled by decades of hands pulling exhausted feet up the stairs after long sessions in the bar. I like this hotel because it was so well-designed three-quarters of a century ago that it doesn’t need anything else other than layer of paint and the odd communications upgrade.

With much small talk, I’m escorted by the hotel team down the corridor of their renovated wing. Already I start to feel a bit dizzy because I notice that the old doors have been reveneered with a dark fake wood and that the dim lighting has been replaced by the cold glow of low-energy bulbs that make passing guests look like ghouls. Halfway down the corridor the PR takes out a keycard that still doesn’t work after five swipes but on the sixth insertion the green light comes to life and the door scrapes open.

Inside, the keycard is inserted into the power slot and the room comes to life. I wince. The heavy green armchair that once sat in the corner is gone, replaced with a modern, modular unit crammed in so tight that it struggles to breathe. The writing desk has been usurped by something spindly and metallic, like an up-ended easel. Covering the bed are a dozen pillows and a bedspread made out of “five ancient saris”.

There’s also a dreadful scent being pumped out by one of those little plug-in deodorisers, and while I’m struggling to find something to say, the general manager pulls open a large door to reveal a mini-bar that’s been rebranded as the “water library”. My hosts look at me with expectant smiles and I stare back speechless. “Is the whole hotel going to look like this?” That’s all I can manage to get out. “Oh yes, the last of the old rooms will be gone by the end of the month,” they reply.

I’ve never spent that much time researching what they teach at the world’s great hotel schools, but I suspect they don’t devote too many hours to the fine art of leaving well alone. They should.

One of the best things to come out of the current economic malaise is that some of the world’s finest hotels have been given a stay of execution from the decorators brought in to transform grand old properties in a bid to attract a younger audience.

On a recent visit to Hamburg, one hotel’s general manager apologised that work on the gym hadn’t started yet and that the room renovations had been pushed back to 2012. “We have the model suite all finished but you are going to have to wait two years to see this whole place transformed,” he said. I asked if it was really wise to spend all that money on a hotel that was perfectly fine just the way it was.

He looked slightly puzzled and said that research had showed that guests from emerging markets were looking for something sexier and trendy. I delicately pointed out that all those guests had vanished from the market – and I’m rather convinced I could feel the grand old hotel chuckle.

Tyler Brûlé is editor-in-chief of Monocle magazine

tyler.brule@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com