I'd be lying if I said I wasn't secretly delighted. When I realise I've locked myself out of my room with its crisp linen sheets, I think of the stories I could tell. I am in a monastery, after all, and it really doesn't get more monkish than spending a night sleeping on the cold, hard floor of a public bathroom.
This is my second night in New Norcia – a world of Gregorian chant led by sandal-wearing monks, where abandoned schoolhouses are held together by faded bricks.