The Jumeirah Carlton Tower is a proper five-star hotel. Its rooms cost up to £5,000 a night and overlook Cadogan Gardens, in the heart of Knightsbridge. They are furnished with big sofas, exotic orchids, half the world’s marble and bathrobes so fluffy, you could survive a 10-storey fall in one.

Down in the lobby, fur-coated women soothe away the strains of a morning’s designer shopping with champagne and cake, while olive-skinned businessmen shake hands on billion-buck deals the way you or I would shake hands on who gets the last croissant.

There is a harpist, a murder of smiling receptionists, a gaggle of sprinting porters and, most important for the purposes of this story, four concierges. Three of them are wearing a gold key brooch on their lapel, signifying membership of the Clefs d’Or, the elite society of the concierge world. One of them isn’t. His badge reads: “Matt - Trainee.” That would be me.

My training has consisted of a brief demonstration of how to read a map upside down and learning the magic, time-buying phrase: “Certainly, sir, I’ll look into that and call you straight back.” I don’t feel prepared.

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Looking at the guest register, every person staying here is a sheikh, an ambassador, the CEO of a yacht company or all three. I am not going to be able to cater to their every whim. I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of the restaurant scene in west London, I hold no sway with the guest list at Chinawhite and I can’t tell my Gabbana & Hawkes from my Dolce & Gieves.

At least it’s a Monday, so it’s not that busy. And we’re overstaffed. Richard is the head concierge, and Cyril and Jason are here too. Normally, there would only be two of them, but they’ve got a third in, presumably to make it harder for the pretend concierge to send a sheikh to Burger King or the president of Georgia on the Tube. He is staying here tonight, by the way. The president. I know it’s only Georgia, but it’s still a president, with all the potential for a concierge-related international incident.

Still, this is my big chance to find out what it’s like on the other side of that desk. A concierge is, after all, a special part of a hotel. He’s the Knowledge. The A-Z. The fixer. He knows everything, you know nothing. He can be quite intimidating.

Richard, as it happens, isn’t intimidating at all, but he is quietly all-knowing. He is better connected than the most Gatsbyish of socialite barflies. In his post this morning, he has a note from the manager of a top restaurant, thanking him effusively for dining there last week, along with several new invitations. He and his team are out constantly, building contacts, testing new places, swapping intel with other concierges. It sounds like a big party, but it’s work, says Richard. They all help each other out, particularly if they’re members of the Priory of Sion, sorry, Clefs d’Or. And, as we’ve established, I’m not.

THIS IS HOW the first (quiet) hour goes ... An American man looking thoroughly fed up needs a car, like, now (no problem). A Middle Eastern man looking only slightly less fed up needs to get to the airport, like, yesterday (no problem). A man wants a table for four at Nobu tomorrow night (nearly a problem, but Jason knows the Nobu girl, so we’re fine). The phone rings and a guest is in urgent need of a pencil sharpener. We have a pencil sharpener. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

The phone rings again, and it’s an alleged friend of a Middle Eastern princess who is staying in one of the posher suites. Friend demands a limo to bring her back to the hotel. We check with the princess. She’s fine with it. Off goes David the Driver in his S-class Merc. Everyone breathes another sigh of relief.

A disgruntled guest’s shoes arrive from the cobbler and we all look anxious, because, if it’s been done wrong again, we’ll never hear the end of it. The shoes look fine, so we FedEx them to Singapore, where disgruntled guest has now flown.

More sighs of relief are interrupted when the same disgruntled guest calls from Singapore. We tell him his shoes are fixed. He tells us the gentleman’s balding tonic we shipped to his office in Dubai has arrived smashed. Some people are never happy.