"One Christmas was so much like another in those years..."

Today is the first anniversary of my Mum's death - Mum, Granny Gin, Granny Great aka the Intrepid Granny on these pages. Please don't sign out on the grounds that this is going to bring down your festive mood. I promise it won't because this is a celebration of all the things that made up our Christmas with the Intrepid Granny for many years. 

She had declared, well over 20 years ago, that she intended to spend all her future Christmases in Yorkshire. With a few exceptions she pretty much pulled that off and the first ringing of the Christmas bell would be in August when she would ask: "What are we doing for Christmas?" Love it! In just six words she was announcing her intention to come to us and whatever we were doing, she was doing it too. 

We would try to hold off her arrival at York Station until the 22nd or 23rd of December because a) we'd only just celebrated her birthday and b) once she arrived we had to be ready to entertain her. I or latterly any of the children with a driving licence would collect her from a member of York Station staff who would be clutching her many bags crammed with things she thought we might like - or sometimes things she thought might 'go off' whilst she was away. And of course, she instantly wanted to know the full programme of events. 

Fast forward to Christmas Eve when my beloved wouldn't even have started wrapping, and me peeling, chopping and stuffing for all I'm worth in the kitchen. There would be church at some point - either during the day when the children were small and could barely contain their excitement - or at midnight when Mum and I would creep out of the house for the magical counting down to Christ's birth in our quiet village church. My beloved would still be up wrapping on our return when we were leaving bite marks in the reindeer carrots and knocking back Santa's sherry.

But before all that, after supper on Christmas Eve we would sit and read Dylan Thomas' A Child's Christmas in Wales, which always started with me reading: "One Christmas was so much like another in those years, around the sea town corner now and out of all sound..." and then the book handed round for each of us to read a page or two. One of my favourite parts of Christmas - no television, no music, just the sound of our voices telling the beautiful story of mischief, snow and cats. 

I have lots of pictures of us all on Christmas morning sitting in dressing gowns with a discarded wrapping paper mountain of excitement. The believing years were, of course, the most special and the two older were very good about not letting cats out of bags for the younger two. The Intrepid Granny would sit in the middle of it all, unwrapping her stocking with slightly less giddiness but twinkling as only grannies can. 

Our only social outing of the day would be up in the village to our always-hospitable Irish chums. Half the village would be there, quaffing fizz, eating smoked salmon and swapping Christmas news. Teenagers wearing whatever new Christmas clothes they had been given, then in later years, bringing along fiancés and new husbands or wives. Our whole family was always welcomed including Mum. Other grannies would cluster in a less congested part of the kitchen, chatting amongst themselves, each unable to hear the other in the hubbub. Not the Intrepid Granny... she would be regaling the young cricketers of the village with her tales of Edgbaston, Lords, the Oval, and the MCG, for she had travelled the world watching England play cricket. I always wondered whether it was polite respect or genuine enjoyment on their part - I think the latter because she was a great storyteller of sporting derring-do.

Then there was the squeezing of lunch into the gap between socialising and The Queen. Other guests and family members might arrive and somehow food would make it to the table. Some years, pudding didn't happen until after Her Majesty - and sometimes, if we were too full, not at all. Then standing for the National Anthem - always - and silence throughout before Mum would comment at the end on how well HM looked, how wonderful were her words and so on. Polite nodding before the second unwrapping began. 

An innings collapse in front of the television for the whole team and some quiet snoring from one or two older members or if we were feeling more lively, we would do Granny's Christmas Quiz which had usually been garnered from the Golf Club and which generally took us three or four days to complete. 

Mum loved it all. The centre of all things, sometimes driving me mad with questions and requirements when I was wrestling the bird, or the ham or anything else. Her insistence on everyone having a sprout. Her absolutely intention of not missing a moment. 

It's the changing of the guard for our Christmas now. It will never be quite the same, whether here or in Liverpool or wherever we land. But we'll always be thinking of her. Especially when the plates of smoked salmon* come out. 

                                    Mum on her 90th birthday cruise - still a little girl at heart! 

*Her favourite food along with Marks and Spencers' chocolate eclairs! 

Crow House Barn - the Kitchen Project

First, a quick context-setting... When we embarked into the world of hospitality with our Barn - this being in a career sense rather than the cork-popping, let's have friends round sense - the world was a different place. Our model for this new enterprise was based on guests sleeping in the Barn, eating breakfast in our conservatory (lovingly cooked by my beloved with waitressing/washing up by moi) and then them going out for the day. Hmm...

These were the halcyon days of pubs and restaurants being open for food pretty much seven days a week and people feeling safe enough to use them. This all worked well in our first summer. We were urged, even then, by our expert Lake District holiday let hosts/dear friends, to put in a kitchen. But we were rammed with bookings, we argued. Also, and I argue now from a smug position of strength, what we might have done then in terms of facilities is not what we have done now. The world is a different place after all. 

Once the dreaded pandemic started, despite deciding that guests could not come into our home for breakfast, and taking them bespoke bacon sandwiches instead, even with no proper kitchen, we continued to fill the Barn with guests whenever there was a break in hostilities. Opening up in April this year when Boris cut the 'going out' ribbon, we have been pretty much packed all summer. Part of this is the necessary result of moving lots of bookings from months when we were closed, of course. We've had wedding groups, families with small children hurtling round the garden (Darcy, the dog loves this!) and folks just wanting to 'chillax'. But the need for an actual kitchen (cooker, hob, fridge/freezer/sink) was becoming increasingly apparent and we have now bitten the bullet. 

When my friends complain of having workmen in the house, I always look at them with poorly-disguised envy. 'You're actually paying people to do home improvements?!' For much of my adult life I have only been able to dream of this! But I do understand how cross people get when the workmen don't show up on the agreed day and suddenly the next workman (plumber, tiler, electrician etc) can't do their bit because the other carpet fitter, heating engineer, etc, etc hasn't turned up on the previous day. This anxiety is magnified many times over when you close your business for three weeks and there are bookings after that. 

A month ago we waved goodbye to lovely Tracey and her family (regulars here) and began - almost before their vehicle was out of sight - to shift furniture, take down pictures and rip up carpets. For three hectic weeks, my beloved along with heating engineers (because we have replaced the heating system for a faster, more efficient version), kitchen fitters, plumbers and electricians have done an amazing job. Credit where it's due, my beloved absolutely nailed this despite my prophesies of gloom and doom and cancellation of bookings. 

Darcy loved having workmen-with-sandwiches around all day and despite our best efforts to turn her into a slimmer version of herself, she shamelessly showed off to anyone and everyone on site. This did give Trevor, the postman, a break because she has to be removed from his van on a daily basis because he gives her treats! 

The kitchen was finished with less than 24 hours to spare and after three lots of guests it still looks gorgeous. Big thanks to Wharfedale Heating, Daryn Forster, Steve Drake and Walter Hartley Electrical who turned up on time and did a great job! 

"I'm not speaking to anyone until those nice men with sandwiches come back..."

Retirement Day (from the day job, that is)!

Today is retirement day. This milestone, after 45 years in advertising and marketing, has been a goal for sometime but suddenly it feels like it’s galloped up on the far rail and overtaken me. 

I want to mark this day with some memories and some words of thanks. I didn’t take this journey alone after all. 

Wind back the clock 45 years to a nervous 20 year old, dressed, I clearly recall, in a lilac linen dress and matching heels - perfect for an interview in Leeds in December! I had been applying for jobs in advertising agencies, marketing departments of blue chip companies and similar businesses to no avail for some time. My carefully hand-written letters with cv had not a jot of relevant experience and in consequence this was only my second interview reaped from a lot of effort! 

Quite what the then managing director of this advertising agency saw in me, I have no idea, but I walked out with a job and a start date of January 2nd 1977. I had wrestled a job as the lowest form of human life in the agency - though I’m sure they called it something more prestigious - maybe even with a two word title! 

Despite the fact that I was, from day 1, the butt of everyone’s jokes in the creative department being a) posh (by their standards) and b) a southerner (the next most southern employee coming from Doncaster), by the end of the week, I absolutely knew that I was in the right place. I loved it. And I remain convinced that no one who works in advertising in this century has as much fun as we did back then. We worked hard, played harder and, in the words of Ronan Keating, life truly was “a rollercoaster”. I made friends for life, even in that first week. My dearest friend from that time died a while ago but he was a top godfather to child number 2. I learnt more from the legend that was Hank Howe, who seemed at 60 like the oldest person on the planet, than anyone else but lots of folks took time to teach me stuff, especially the tatty typographer from Doncaster with whom I shared an office for a while. He increased my vocabulary in all sorts of interesting ways. 

Back then, typesetting came from Manchester to Leeds in a van from a company called Gask and Hawley which apparently still exists but was more usually called Grasp and Crawley. Huge parcels of artwork were shipped every day to national newspapers and the air was perfumed with magic markers and cow gum spray. 

From lowest form of life to director in 8 years. I was definitely in the right place. I had wonderful colleagues who made even the hard stuff fun (mostly), met all sorts of great people who did other jobs in the industry from photographers and film producers to graphic designers, illustrators, media reps and everything in between. I had brave clients (sometimes) who would take a risk and buy into the creative dream, and conservative clients who wanted - and usually got - their pound of flesh. Best of all, I met a young man who worked in the family coach travel business who was also a client. “Reader, I married him.” 

Intending to retire once we started a family, it somehow never quite happened, though in the early years, I worked only on and off. Could I help with a pitch, work on an exhibition stand, do a really horrible cold calling campaign? Yes I did all those things and more. 

Then a few years on, with four under 11, I went back into the business properly, working first for a public relations consultancy and then setting up on my own. Looking back, it was quite brave/rash but it worked out ok. I started on day 1 with one client and by day 5, I had two and so it went on. As a one-man-band, I always said I could do stuff, even if I had no idea how I was going to achieve it. And fortunately it usually worked, though sleep was definitely lost on the way. 

I won an IPR Gold in 2002 (I’ve just looked - it needs dusting!) and got shortlisted for another award. Not bad for a sole trader. I’ve worked for some great clients, my mantra always being that I would only work for people that I could recommend in whatever field they worked in. I’ve had the pleasure of working for some businesses for in excess of 17 years and loved being accepted as part of the team, rather than an outside supplier. 

A few years ago, I had breast cancer and I was pretty poorly for nearly a year. I told each of my clients the awful news, saying I quite understood if they went elsewhere but that I intended to work as much as I could. Every single one assured me that I should do what I could when I could and that they would continue to pay me regardless. I cannot thank them enough to this day. 

I was lucky enough to work through the pandemic for businesses that continued to operate through very tough circumstances. I think in some ways they went above and beyond to keep me on, but I hope that I justified their support. I certainly tried. 

Finally, as one of my last hurrahs, last month I went to an awards ceremony in Leeds with my last remaining client. We had been shortlisted for an award and it would have been a fairytale ending for me if we had won. We didn’t but I got to meet David Flatman who is something of a hero of mine. I looked around the room at all the bright young things at the start of their careers and wished them all the fun, excitement, great friends and the buzz of it all that I have enjoyed over the years. Definitely time for me to go. 

Postscript: I saw a friend on Saturday night with whom I have worked quite a few times over the years. He confidently said that if I retired today, I’d be bored by Thursday and looking for work. I think I’ll last longer than that but I’ll keep you posted! 

The Crow House Barn Project: Back in the Saddle Again

So with apologies to Gene Autry aka The Singing Cowboy, we are "Back in the Saddle Again" Barn-wise! Actually, click on the link at the end, it's bonkers!

At the start of the year, I thought I'd write a journal about the Barn. A whole year of the thrills and spills of life as a bed and breakfast practitioner. It seemed like a good plan at the time. Folks have often kindly expressed an interest in the shenanigans of this unexpected change in our lifestyle and so I thought if I wrote it down I might be able to make something saleable out of my memoir. Think The Minack Chronicles by Derek Tangye or Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence. I did not, of course, expect the entire edifice to crumble so spectacularly when I embarked on this writing challenge. Coronavirus was a distant event in Wuhan and like everyone else, we didn't see this tsunami coming or how it would change everything.

We waved goodbye to our last visitor just before lockdown and hosted a couple of key workers at the start and then... nothing. We had, by this time, taken delivery of the intrepid granny who lived with us in the house, but the Barn, like theatres, was dark. We applied to host key workers because, with a Nightingale Hospital in nearby Harrogate, we thought we could be useful. But our booking agent deemed us unsuitable (though it took them from early April when we applied to late May to make their minds up). We refunded, cancelled and re-scheduled bookings through the whole period feeling very miffed that our new enterprise was apparently the ultimate perishable product.

In the meantime, although we were both doing our day jobs from home, we did all sorts of maintenance - painting, replacing electricals and generally gardening ourselves into the ground - literally! Then, as things eased and the R-rate started to dip significantly, Boris said we could open in a few days. And because we are isolated (we call it 'secluded' because isolated sounds a bit Wuthering Heights) enquiries rolled in. The early ones were mostly enquiries rather than bookings because obviously folks were cautious. Could they cancel if we went back into lockdown, what were our new cleaning protocols, etc etc. We answered with what felt like endless patience - if there was a local or national (God forbid) lockdown again, we would reschedule or refund as before. But some folks were looking for more wriggle room than that. No you can't just change your mind, and you definitely can't do it at 3 days' notice!

After a few days, the enquiries had turned into bookings and folks desperate to go somewhere beyond their own self-imposed prison yard, however lovely, were booking apace. Meanwhile we had got out of the rhythm of changeovers, biblical laundry and the need to be at home. So now days off are few and far between but this is our new life and we're happy to be back in the saddle again. Yes, everyone else can travel now but we'll be here as long as we have guests, which we hope is a long time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5F-O_19lSI

We did a fabulous walk at the weekend from Osmotherley along part of the Cleveland Way. What a beautiful part of the country we are privileged to call home!

The One Hundred Days Lockdown Blues

If I were a song writer (I'm not, obviously) I'm sure I'd manage to write something witty and melodic under the title The One Hundred Days Lockdown Blues. I can imagine it performed by Little Feat along the lines of Long Distance Love. Rest assured, it'll never happen.

Each day since 20th March which was my beloved's birthday, I have been noting the number of days with my Scrabble fridge magnets and we have now got to One Hundred Days. Who knew that this forced isolation would go on for so long? The point at which I started measuring is entirely personal to me and other folks might have different start dates. Mine stems from the last time the pub was open and I was in it. Other people's start date might of course be more Boris-related.

I am conscious that my lockdown is probably a deal more pleasant than people who have been in city flats and I have ruthlessly made the most of that. Our home is in the middle of a garden and the whole is situated in the middle of nowhere. No neighbours (can't count sheep, cattle and sundry wildlife) so this has been an outdoorsy lockdown. I agree - I am fortunate. And we're all healthy too and I know some folks can't say that. We locked down and stayed safe - for now anyway.

We invited the intrepid granny to spend lockdown with us (five or six weeks, I originally thought - I'm saying no more as she reads this!). So we ate well, particularly when we decided she could go accompanied, masked and gloved to Marks & Spencers Food Hall. She left two weeks ago but we're still enjoying a few M&S treats from the freezer.

So without turning this into 'is this the new normal?', there is some stuff that I think is good - good for me anyway and has given me joy. And then there's the other stuff...

1  Walking - we've walked miles. And because we can do this without seeing anyone else (or hardly anyone, particularly early in the morning) we have really enjoyed this. Watching the seasons change. Loving the warm weather (it's now blowing a gale and raining sideways - don't you love 'flaming June'?) One particular day, when I had a sense of humour failure, Darcy (small dog of dubious parentage) and I walked seven miles waiting for my temper to cool. Nice walk, still angry.

2  Gardening. Cunning plan here. The intrepid granny who has gone from a very big garden to a very small garden in her new home relished getting her grippers on my garden. I gave her a free hand in return for a granny gardening grant. She bought, I planted. Smugly, we look pretty good now!

3  Quiet roads, no litter. Aah... looking back at the halcyon days of early lockdown when I could trundle along the middle of the road without thinking I was going to run down at any moment. Within a couple of weeks, lunatics were on the road, treating our lanes like a race track and chucking their Tesco sandwich boxes out of the window. We even had a couple of cars whizzing down our No Through Road and then deciding to turn their cars on our grass - well, really!

4  No sport. No playing, no watching. Lucky for me that tennis was one of the first sports deemed safe to play even if I had to endure some ritual humiliation at singles before we could play doubles - ritual humiliation there too. Otherwise I might have had to take up golf again to which I am not temperamentally suited - ball too small, stick too long. And no rugby to watch. My wonderful Newcastle Falcons, promoted back to the Premiership, may not play for months and Dean Richards is currently working as a policeman. I love the buzz of live sport, being there, the atmosphere, the crowds. That's a long time away, I fear. And don't even ask me how I feel about Wimbledon.

5  My children. Not being with them, not getting a real sense of how they are, how they're coping, how they feel about stuff - this is my nightmare. Technology is great but it's no substitute for seeing them in person. And a grandson who's growing up so fast. And hugs - missing this more than anything.

6  Crowds. I genuinely don't understand this. I get that I'm privileged to live where I do. We're not grand or palatial but we are isolated. But for everyone in the NHS to have done everything they can to keep us safe, risking their lives in the process, this must be the most monumental slap in the face. And for the police too. No matter where you stand politically - there is no excuse for risking the life of your fellow man by joining in a demonstration or celebration or parking your backside on a beach right next to other folks. I don't get it. So much for clapping for the NHS.

7  Working. Freelance for nearly twenty years, sometimes work feels precarious. I've spent a lot of time over the years worrying about work but I have been so relieved to sit down each day at my computer. No, the rewrite of the novel isn't finished yet (though it does have a new ending) but at least my mind hasn't atrophied and there's still money coming in.

8  Not working. Our great enterprise, as we thought it, to turn the Barn into a B&B was going swimmingly - until this. We have refunded and postponed and honestly bent over backwards to help our would-be guests. And whilst the Barn has been empty, we've deep-cleaned, painted, replaced electricals and much, much more. At last bookings are coming in again and we open at the end of the week. It won't solve the gaping hole of what we might have earned through the spring but at least we're back in the game - unless number 6 above causes another lockdown.

9  Twitching. Yes, we have turned into twitchers. During our regular conversations with our children, we have told them about sitting by the side of the stream in the evening watching the kingfisher adults darting in and out feeding their chicks. And the magnificent red kites that guard their nest, sitting on a branch like totem poles, stretching in the morning light. We have, as far as our children are concerned, truly lost the plot. Away with the birds, if not the fairies.

10.  Bladder control. Actually it's more a case of what my nana used to say: "Go when you can, not when you want to." So how much can I drink on my walk, playing tennis or running errands without needing a handy bush? And I am not a handy bush type of person. If anything was to induce me to have a sex change it might just be this!

Long Distance Love by Little Feat - definitely in my Desert Island Discs!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q9uJfWJu7wE

The Crow House Barn Project: When Theatres Go Dark

In stage parlance, when a theatre goes dark, it means it is closed. During the World Wars, the IRA terrorist activity during the 1970s and other bad stuff, our West End theatres defiantly stayed open. But not now. In fact, according to The Spectator, the last time our London theatres went dark on this scale was in 1592 when the plague was rife and Shakespeare turned his hand to knocking out a few poems instead.

Closer to home, in fact just across the yard, our Barn is now dark. And very strange it feels too. We are so used to guests in the Barn that it is now 'status normal' for us. But we said goodbye to our last guests yesterday morning and, yes, before you tut, they were key workers. Delightful fellows working in construction who despite their obvious ability to do proper manual labour, couldn't work out how to light the log burner each night and took to giving me a call when they were on their way home to ask if we would light it for them. After a couple of evenings, we just lit it for them anyway and jolly grateful they were too. They were kind enough to ring me yesterday morning after they had left to say thank you and that, in the future, they would be back with their wives. "Nicest place we've ever stayed." A good way to end, I think.

The reality is that we have spent the last couple of weeks haemorrhaging bookings, agreeing cancellations, refunding and generally playing a tricky wicket with what we hope is a straight bat. Some folks have cancelled and immediately rebooked for later in the year and we love these guys. Some have, even better, said they are happy to leave their deposits with us and will move their booking to better times. Some have sent us kind messages and promised to be back. Some have just taken the money and - that's ok, I get that. Lots of people are significantly worse off than we are and at least we are well and living comfortably at home with the 91 year old Intrepid Granny now in residence for the duration.

Of course, the urge to gather my chicks around me is very great. But they are having none of it. All their bedrooms in the house and the Barn could now be restored to their original owners - our children have variously lived in the Barn over the years, apart from number 3 who said "It's too far from the kitchen!" but that's hungry boys for you! But they are locked down in various places apart from our nurse, number 4, who is on the frontline in a London hospital. They know I'm thinking of them and they are being very good about checking in daily. I'm sure there is some harrumphing about this that I am not aware of, but they're doing it and that gives me comfort.

Going back to the Barn, whilst it's hard to know how long this will continue, we need to generate some bookings so with my marketing head on, I will be devising some deals and offers which I will be posting on social media in due course. And after all, this time last year, there was no Crow House Barn.

This is the most beautiful time of year to come here. Every morning when I take Darcy (small black dog of dubious parentage much loved by guests) for a walk, Nature is raucously announcing her presence in the fields, hedgerows and woodlands. And, not least because we had a spring wedding here a few years ago and did a lot of planting, tulips and daffodils, hyacinths and primroses are bursting into bloom in the garden. We've had enough dry weather to get the mowing up to date and we look rather wonderful. Maybe next year, we'll have guests who can enjoy it all with us. Here's hoping.

So wishing you all a safe self-isolating spring and let's hope that we can all enjoy summer together rather than apart.

Special request: if you enjoy my ramblings and want to share with other folks, please do. Once this is over, we'd like to have a bed and breakfast business again so if you can help get the message out there, we'd be ever so grateful. www.crowhousebarn.co.uk

The Crow House Barn Project: The very good, the bad and the downright ugly!

Sometimes I wake up in the morning feeling like I have landed in a foreign land! How did we get here? What am I doing and where did my old life go?

A year ago, the idea of turning the Barn into a B and B was a sort of a pipe dream. A bit like my writing career which, though not for the want of trying, never seems to get off the starting blocks. One novel written and currently being revised, two further novels plotted out and partially written and numerous submissions to literary agents and competitions and the completed novel still only has a readership of 5! 

The Barn Project felt a bit like that a year ago and therefore light years away from the thriving business it is now. And the rewards of this enterprise run much deeper than the obvious financial ones - though they are essential in all of this. We have met extraordinary and interesting people who otherwise would not have crossed our paths. 

We were with friends at the weekend discussing PLUs (People Like Us) and how we, through our interaction with them and our more general reading and listening and watching, constantly re-enforce our prejudices. And at our age, it is all too easy to do just that as we meet perhaps fewer people through work - and a lot of our friends are retired now - and we tend generally not to explore the unknown with the gusto and enthusiasm we had twenty years ago. The point of this long preamble is to say that we are expanding our horizons - not because we’re going anywhere but because our horizons are coming to us. 

Take the parents who come and stay in the Barn because they are bringing their teenagers either to look at or to join the Army Foundation College in Harrogate. We’ve had a few of these and they have all been such kind and loving parents. First we had to discover that the AFC mentioned in the booking reservations was indeed the College and not a local football team (it was for many years called the Army Apprentice College - hence my confusion). These people are packing off their sixteen year old sons and daughters into an army life and I, as a mother of four, can’t even begin to imagine what a maelstrom of emotions that must release. We’ve seen smartly dressed, short-haired, shiny-shoe-ed young men leave here on a Sunday morning for their first taste of Army life away from the comforts of home. And then, when it was Remembrance Sunday at our local church, a group of young soldiers came to the village, presumably from the same year group. None of them had stayed with us before joining up but their smart uniforms and razor-sharp discipline made us realise how quickly they lick them into shape. 

And then there were our lovely Scottish engineers who lived with us Monday to Friday for several weeks during the autumn. We fed them huge breakfasts each morning before they went off to work outside all day. We had lots of jokes and laughter with them and each Thursday evening they would appear with a bouquet of flowers! And like the vast majority of our guests, they left everywhere spick and span so our changeover for our weekend guests was less arduous. 

Of course I would be fibbing if I said all our guests were as delightful. We do all our own laundry so, although I know this is not practical, it would be so helpful if folks who stain (sorry, horrid word) the bedlinen would stick a post-it note on identifying the stain. Sometimes I have worked through all the Stain Devil options as well as copious amounts of Vanish before I crack it. Other than all the obvious ones that have probably already sprung to mind at this point, fake tan and red hair dye are definitely at the top of my demon list! 

And then there are the folks who just leave a mess. One group of guests left a mess everywhere every day and then, because we are not a hotel and therefore do not make beds and clean up after people on a daily basis, marked us down on the booking site for cleanliness. One group came for two nights and only stayed for one, leaving the front door open and the lights and all the heating on. We checked by text that they hadn’t been unhappy with anything and they said they had just had to change their arrangements. Then one member of the group turned up on the second night quite late in the evening (when I am already in my pjs) in a t-shirt (in midwinter). We fed him our supper in the house and warmed him up with hot tea whilst his parents came to collect him from the other side of the Pennines, all his belongings having already gone with the others. And another group helped themselves to DVDs (which they took home presumably) and the front door key. Very annoying! I’d definitely like my copy of ’10 Things I Hate About You’ returned! 

Then we had the beautiful couple (you know, so attractive that if you passed them in the street you might think they were models…) who trampled make-up into the rug, managed to get through three sets of bedlinen in two nights (don’t ask!) and left a tap running. Handsome is as handsome does in my book.