I like places with a sense of humour, so I’ve wanted to stay in the Roman Hotel ever since catching sight of its eye-popping exterior. Plus we had Matt’s birthday to celebrate and he was up for a laugh.

The Roman Hotel sits between the ancient, crumbling Fabrika Hill and the swish, modern Kings Avenue Mall in Paphos. More detailed directions aren’t necessary – you’ll know it when you see it. It’s a big orange building covered with paintings from Greek myths and topped with English-style castle battlements. It’s every child’s fantasy. Goobie leapt gleefully up its steps, sword in hand, Roman helmet hanging off his head.

We walked through a porch with real mosaics on the walls and opened the doors into the reception. Sensory overload!! Bright oranges and yellows, in-yer-face black and red pictures on the walls, a green metal throne in the centre. And floor-to-ceiling mirrors. So many that it was hard to tell what was real and what was a reflection. At the other end of the reception, two parrots whistled at us. Utter fantasy. I loved it.

We checked in and headed off in search of our room, which we found at the end of a ground-floor corridor. The walls were lined with leopard-print fake fur. I kid you not!

We’d booked a family room and it was huge! Decorated with larger-than-life frescoes and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that succeeded in giving it a palatial feel. Movie-set palatial, not real palatial, obviously. Goobie was beside himself. Even Herc seemed impressed. He spent much of his weekend staring at the high-contrast pictures on the walls. Babies like high-contrast things apparently.

We explored the rest of the hotel. More corridors lined with fake fur and mirrors. The ‘never-ending bar’ – so called because well-placed mirrors made it look like it went on forever. Goobie had a tantrum in there over a game of chess. Matt’s bishop took his queen and Goobie retaliated by obliterating the board. In fairness, it’s what I would have wanted to do too.

Outside there’s a courtyard with a pool in the middle. It was being renovated when we were there but, surrounded by leafy plants, I imagine it looks pretty in the summer. There’s a pool bar, billiards room and steps down into a table tennis room and small health centre.

To the side of the hotel is another courtyard that isn’t sign-posted. Inside this courtyard are tombs!  The balconies from some of the rooms look out onto it or you can reach it by going round the outside of the hotel where there’s a little alley leading to it from the Tombs of the Kings Avenue side. The alley isn’t hugely noticeable, so here’s a photo.

The courtyard is overgrown and I don’t think the Roman Hotel manages it, even though it sits within its walls. There are a number of tomb entrances and one is tucked into the bowels of the hotel.

However, the most impressive tomb has steps leading down to it. You can’t go inside, but you can peak through the mesh covering the door. Inside is a tomb with frescoes still on the walls. See if you can spot the painting of the little dog.

Our mornings at the Roman Hotel started with a massive buffet breakfast in the dining room. Breakfast finishes a tad too early here at 9.45am – which we arrived late for, despite being up since 6.30am. We rapidly filled plates and bowls with cereals, cheeses, eggs, beans, pancakes and took them back to our table before the buffet closed. Not to mention numerous tiny cups of tea. What is it with Lilliputian hotel cups and saucers? I need a pint-sized mug of tea to get going in the mornings!

Getting breakfast one-handed!

The hotel is brilliantly situated. It is right opposite the Kings Avenue Mall – it was hard to resist popping in there for a spot of clothes shopping. It’s also a 3-minute walk to the amazing Fabrica Hill and the Agia Solomoni Catacombs (which I MUST blog about one day). A further 5 minutes along the B20 and you reach St Paul’s Pillar, which I’d never visited before. The harbour and the Archaeological Park is another 5-minutes walk from St Paul’s Pillar.

Also, 5 minutes from the Roman Hotel is the Blue Flag Lighthouse Beach. Paphos was experiencing a rare miserable-weather day so we didn’t linger, but we saw enough of the sandy beach to want to return in the summer.

Food-wise, the Roman Hotel is also well located – there’s loads of restaurants and bars within walking distance further down Tombs of the Kings Avenue. But were the ones we’d planned to go to open? No! Despite Google assuring us they were. Many were closed for the winter. Thank goodness for Phuket, a great Thai restaurant. It even had a chicken nugget-style children’s menu to keep Goobie happy. After that we returned to our Paphos-favourite, Pinguino, down near the harbour.

Since we are regular visitors to Paphos, Matt wanted to spend his actual birthday enjoying the zany atmosphere of the Roman Hotel. Goobie, for reasons only understood by a six year-old, had planned a surprise – that we were all to wear carnival glasses to celebrate Matt’s birthday. And of course I had to support his innovative idea. Even if it meant looking like an arse in the middle of Paphos. ‘I’ve never believed in myself,‘ I can hear him say to his therapist in 20 years’ time, ‘When I was six, I had a great idea about carnival glasses, but my mum refused to wear them down Tombs of the Kings Avenue and into Tea for Two. Scarred me. For LIFE.’

No thank you very much. I wore my carnival glasses for most of the day in the name of his self-esteem.

But just for the record, six year-olds are arseholes.

As it turned out, I didn’t need a six year-old to make me look ridiculous. I managed that all by myself when I went for a back, neck and shoulder massage in the hotel’s health centre.

As far as I’m aware, there are three categories of pants:

1. The sexy, utterly unwearable kind that end up in your pants drawer after an impulse buy in Victoria’s Secret 10 years ago. They spend years at the back of your drawer waiting for a time when you don’t mind feeling like your bum-crack is being flossed whenever you bend down to put puke-soaked bibs in the washing machine. Chucking them out is unthinkable.

2. The everyday kind that complement your figure and are comfy too.

3. Big Pants – reserved for sick days, period days and postnatal days (weeks). Stay in pants drawer for far longer than they should.

Well, since Herc, my everyday pants don’t quite fit me yet. I can get them on but not as far as they need to go. So when I’m bending down to put puke-soaked bibs in the washing machine, my tight jeans pull them down. And they stay down even when I stand up. Which is nearly as uncomfortable as bum-flossing pants. But perhaps that’s too much information. Suffice to say, Big Pants are more comfortable at the moment. And they are only worn if I’m 100% certain no one will see me in them – and that includes Matt. And paramedics if I think there’s a chance I could get rushed to hospital.

So anyway, when the massage therapist tells me to take off my jeans, I have one of those cold-sweat moments of utter mortification. I’m wearing Big Pants! I hadn’t expected to have to take off my jeans for a back, neck and shoulder massage.

‘Do you want me to take off my pants?’ I ask hopefully. Nudity would be preferable to Big Pants shame.

‘No, you can keep them on.’

And I just panic. My dignity does a runner. I hear myself blurting out:

‘I’m sorry – I should warn you – it’s my pants. I’m wearing the world’s biggest pants!!!’

I surreptitiously try to push my pants down slightly to make them look smaller. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and realise there is something worse than Big Pants – SAGGY BIG PANTS!!

Earth, swallow me up.