There are few things you can rely on life. The weather, the government, even friends and family at times. All will let you down at some point. I’ve always said, though, that you can rely on a Marriott http://marriott.com, because you always know what you’re going to get.

It’s why I always stay in them. No matter how much they try to refresh them with new furnishings and new carpets, they still end up looking exactly the same. A bloody Marriott. If you did a Before and After picture of a Marriott update, you’d be unable to tell the difference between 1974 and 2024. And there’s a kind of comfort in that, albeit one that on a bad day might make you want to hang yourself from the doorframe by the bathrobe cord.

You won’t be able to try that, by the way (should you be interested), while staying in a Standard room, because they don’t have bathrobes; you’ll just have to jump off the bed and hope you land on your neck.

While on that subject, in some hotels, you don’t even have to go to all that effort when fate joins hands with a hotel to send you on your way. The singer Gene Pitney died suddenly in the Cardiff Hilton http://hilton.com while on tour (not attached to a bathrobe), which is why I’ve always avoided the place; I don’t want to tempt fate.

The other dead (not literally) cert in terms of reliability is IKEA http://ikea.com. God, I love IKEA. I also hate them – but not for long.

I hate them only when I’ve spent four hours blistering my hands putting together a bed, only to discover, at the final hurdle, that I attached the very first piece the wrong way round. Then I search frantically in the box for the two little men who, according to the diagram, come with the purchase, and weep when discovering they are not there.

Then I curse the little men for not having been clear in the first place. Then, I curse IKEA for leaving out of the box the one screw needed to make the bed stand up.

But I love IKEA, too. When the finished product is finally put together, nothing gives me greater pleasure. IKEA is like giving birth (I imagine): it’s hell while you’re going through it, but the end product is well worth the wait.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that money – or, rather, a lack of – is a big issue in my life at the moment. Brexit’s 90/180 rule means that until I get my Bulgarian Pension Visa (that will also give me Schengen freedom), I am limited with the number of days I can spend in EU countries. I am allowed to be in the UK, of course, but I simply can’t afford it – hotels or Airbnbs, which are both extortionate, no matter which end of the country you go.

Because I can’t afford the air fares to far flung cheap places like Thailand or Vietnam, I’m tied to Eastern Europe, which is very cheap by UK standards. Having visited Eastern Europe only once (Poland, for six weeks, in 1983, with UNESCO), I didn’t know what to expect, but it’s fascinating and has reinforced my love of history.

Working out who hates who – and, for very complex reasons, why – is the biggest challenge. Serbians hate Albanians but like Bulgarians and are especially fond of Russians (disturbingly so); Albanians in the capital Tirana hate the Albanians on the coast; Bulgarians and Romanians like each other. Everyone hates the Germans. Nothing new there.

Amid the chaos of my current life (different languages, different cultures, and, worse, having to keep finding new bearings in unfamiliar streets), there has been one consistent factor that has kept me grounded: IKEA.

It’s everywhere. Chairs, tables, beds, cutlery, wooden spoons, knives, mugs. Every Airbnb in which I’ve stayed in every country is a shrine to the place. It’s like living in my storage unit that is now home to all my IKEA stuff from my Cardiff home.

It helps. In unsettling circumstances (don’t even get me started on why it’s almost impossible to buy black tea in Eastern Europe), each place soon feels like a home from home. The only time I think stalking is acceptable is when you feel as if you’re being stalked by IKEA.

I’m writing this from a smaller version of the Melltorp range, a table I have put together so many times in different countries, I could replace one of the little men on the instruction leaflet.

In my world of uncertainty, IKEA is my comfort blanket, and I am grateful to be wrapped in it on a daily basis.