One of the great pleasures of travelling is that walk from the lift to the door of your room in an hotel where you know you are not going to be disappointed. It's been a long day in Rome but I skip over the thick carpet in anticipation of the luxurious relaxation ahead.

I fling open the door and everything is just right. Fine furnishings, charming courtyard view, well-stocked minibar, deep bath tub and the bed covers turned back ready for an undisturbed night's sleep. There is even the bonus of a group of American students cracking jokes in the corner.

Hang on, who ordered the frat boys? Closer examination reveals that the Yanks are actually in the next room, but they might as well be in with me because I can hear every word. The sound is peculiarly amplified through the air-conditioning duct, as if some voice relay experiment is being carried out by a person who hasn't heard of the telephone.

I don't want to listen but I can't help but hear snippets above the booming TV. “I couldn't reach the soap,” complains a male voice. What is going on in there? A symposium of dwarfs?

I'm reluctant to knock and ask them to pipe down. I did that once and was rewarded with an intimidating and even louder din. A hotel room should be a sanctuary, but noisy neighbours are all too frequent. Whenever I clap eyes on the Queen's Hotel in Leeds I have flashbacks to the all-night mating marathon conducted by a grunting warthog and his squealing bit-on-the side, a paper-thin wall away from my head. It made for great comedy when Basil Fawlty mistook a massage for rumpy-pumpy when he listened at a door (“ooh yes! Have you been taking lessons?”) but there was no confusing this Yorkshire performance. Similarly, the experience of being woken by the racket of a dude rowing with a hooker over her fee ensures that I have unhappy memories of the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

I can see that I'm in for an infernal night in the Eternal City. I call the front desk and explain the problem. “Really?” a man says, as if he has never heard such a complaint before. He'll send someone up. After an age a man in overalls appears. He speaks no English. I have no Italian. I point at the grill and cup my ear.

Frustratingly the TV has been turned down and the frat boy dwarfs are quieter. But he gets the idea, makes a gesture of reassurance and heads off down the corridor. Another ten minutes pass and he returns with a step ladder which he ascends to inspect the grill over the duct. He grunts, gives a sage nod and the reassuring, palms up “just wait, I know how to sort this” hand gesture, and disappears again.

After another ten minutes of sitting on the bed in full view of other guests returning to their rooms I am feeling silly and wish I had never started this. But eventually he returns, whistling, hops up the ladder and carefully sticks a pillow case over the grill with brown tape. He descends, surveys his handiwork with the satisfaction of a man who has put the finishing touches to a fresco that has taken three years to daub on a chapel ceiling, gives me a businesslike nod and departs.

I am speechless. Not so my neighbours. “You'd think they'd have CNN!” exclaims a man who appears to have got hold of a megaphone. I bellow at the grill: “Will you be quiet!”

Silence. Did they hear that? Have they met my demand? I think they have. I hold my breath for half a minute. Yes! A result! Signor Overalls may have let me down, but when they heard that commanding order those gobby kids shut up damn quickly. Whoever they are, they aren't going to argue with this neighbour. Bet they are feeling sheepish in there now that they realise that every word has been audible to the guy next door. Pretty foolish.

But wait. What was that? Now they are starting up with a drill. What fresh hell is this? Who are these people? Should I get security up here? What a second. Is that..? Yes...That extraordinary machinegun rattle, that might disturb St Peter himself and will keep this chap awake and furious for another hour even with his head under the pillow with lavatory paper stuffed in his ears, is the sound of another chap blissfully snoring his head off.

damian.whitworth@thetimes.co.uk

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