Words: Charlotte Philby
Within minutes of walking through the door of the Four Seasons, Prague, a member of staff leaps at us: “Let me take that, Sir,” he says in hushed tones, prising off my husband’s jacket and giving a discreet nod towards a patch of baby drool which has crystallised around the shoulder area. A patch that, most likely, has been there several weeks. By the time we arrive at our room, in the contemporary part of the hotel – which consists of four parts: Baroque, neo-classical, neo-Renaissance and modern – and overlooking the Vltava river, the coat has been hung in the wardrobe, pristine.
Our sartorial misdemeanour soon dissolves into a distant, shameful memory, however, as we clock the bottle of chilled champagne which has been laid out alongside chocolate-dipped strawberries, in front of the window. From here, given our vantage point at the foot of the Charles Bridge in the Old Town, we are met by a skyline of beautifully dishevelled rooftops and the Castle beyond. Less than interested in the view, or the overpowering sense of history, our daughter makes a beeline for her cot which is brimming with toys.
If the hotel was trying to buy her affections then it has worked; a deal even more tightly sealed upon entry to the bathroom which, decked out with slick lighting and L’Occitane products for us, has been transformed into a narcissist’s mecca with our daughter’s name spelt out across the bath and endless organic children’s lotions and potions, and an array of rubber ducks to suit her every whim. Best of all, her very own embossed child-sized dressing gown and slippers.