Basil Fawlty ended up beating his car with a tree branch after doing B&B for years, and I am very near that point after six months of dealing with customers.
Among the many requests I’ve had since opening en suite rooms in my house in Ireland I can now add: ‘I would like a throw.’
An American lady and her husband checked into our largest double room with a king-sized bed, marble bathroom and spectacular view, and she came straight back out, down the stairs calling my name urgently – so urgently I thought she must have found a dead rat in the bed – and pronounced: ‘Ah. Now. Do you have a throw?’
The lady explained that she wanted to take a nap, but she didn’t want to go under the duvet. Basil Fawlty would have said: ‘Oh a throw! Yes, why not! A throw!’ And after turning to screech at Sybil to get whatever a throw was, he would mutter under his breath: ‘I’ll give you a throw… I’ll throw you out if you don’t stop bothering me…’
But the builder boyfriend was away in London so my Sybil wasn’t available. ‘A throw, of course,’ I said, thinking: ‘Dear me, the throws I have are all covered in dog hair.’ Then I remembered that I had some dry-cleaned patchwork quilts. I found her one and handed it over. As she took it, she said she would like the heating on. It was 4 p.m. on an April day and while it was raining outside, it was warm.
Basil would have said: ‘Heating at 4 p.m.? Oh, why not! And while you’re at it, would you like to burn some pound notes from my wallet? Here you are…’ And he’d empty his money in front of her, produce a lighter and invite her to set it on fire.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in