Was it a matter of deep spiritual significance? Er….no. Was it an issue of bee-in-the-bonnet proportions? Er….yes. But I can defend my anxiety.

You see, when I travel, whether to a Travel Lodge on the outskirts of Slough or a hotel I can’t possibly afford but somebody else can, there are certain… fundamentals I rely on.

I expect clean sheets, a shower cap and one of those TV channels you have to pay for, but in addition, I also expect to find a Gideon Bible in the bedside drawer.

Now, do I read it? No. Do I pick it up and flick through its pages mindlessly? No. Do I stare at it for a few seconds before closing said drawer and experimenting with the shower – or lack of – in the bathroom? Every single time.

In fact, for all I know, the Gideon Bible could just be a fancy name for storing all the hotel’s fancy stationery.

What matters, though, is that it’s there. Like the sewing kit, the oatmeal biscuits and instant coffee sachets, the TV that’s broken, the safe I have nothing to deposit in, the bottled water and the pantomime tour of the room by the porter.

Anyway, last week I was away on holiday, travelling across Europe by train. And in one hotel I booked into (a kind of Alpine Bates Motel), searching shiftlessly as I always do through drawers and cupboards, I discovered I was minus one Bible.

Not good considering one of the glasses in the bathroom had a hair in it. And not necessarily from the top of someone’s head.

So I rang down to reception and in pidgin French asked where it might be.

“You ‘ave no By-Bull?” “Nicht” “Would you like to go to church?”

“Nein” “Okay, I send up….”

Five minutes later, sure enough, there’s a knock at my door.

“Monsieur, I have your By-Bull” she says, and she did – a guide to 16th century monasteries, in French, and illustrated with hundreds of pictures of church spires and country folk.

She glowed with pride and swung a lovely ponytail, so who was I to ruin someone’s day? I fished around for a Euro, couldn’t find one, so smiled beseechingly and closed the door.

Later, over breakfast, what looked like the manager suddenly appeared by my table.

Rather self-consciously in front of everyone announced he was sorry for the mistake and that his hotel welcomed guests of all religious denominations, and would I accept a children’s illustrated version of the ‘Greatest Story of All Time’ he’d just bought, to keep by way of apology.

Someone clapped, I smiled like a four-year-old, and then felt duty-bound to crate it round with me for the rest of my trip.

I just thank God I hadn’t asked for a trouser press…