Whenever I see a hotel – implicitly or explicitly – describe themselves as a 'home from home', something inside me stiffens. One of the reasons, surely, why we visit upmarket hotels is to have a wholly different experience from home; it would be a poor show to spend hundreds of pounds on somewhere to find piles of clothes strewn across the floor, animals and children vying with one another to see which can make more noise, and half-eaten food sitting in the fridge 'just in case'. We leave these domestic concerns behind for a night or two, and embrace a sybaritic, theatrical existence of temporary self-indulgence, so that we can return to our considerably less thrilling home lives relaxed and refreshed. Yet if I was to make a hotel my home, Notting Hill's The Laslett would be somewhere very close to the top of my list. It's partly because its location, a literal stone's throw from Notting Hill Gate on Pembridge Gardens, makes this feel like the mos