‘Please do NOT wash up!’ reads the makeshift sign I have fixed above the kitchen sink. It instructs our B&B guests to leave their dirty dishes on the side, which sounds ridiculous. But we cannot convince anyone to put their plates and cutlery in the dishwasher any more, because they all seem to have bought into the latest conspiracy theory.
The Canadian was making his way through a plateful of eggs like Cool Hand Luke. He was very young and good-looking, so watching him devour eggs at my kitchen table elicited mixed feelings in me. I couldn’t be cross, given how lovely he looked as he performed his bowel-defying feat.
I had set the large platter of scrambled eggs for two down in the middle of the breakfast table as he drank coffee, waiting for his wife to appear.
But he pulled the serving platter in front of him as if it was his plate and began to eat, forking heaps of eggs down, assuming, I suppose, that I would make another platter when the wife appeared.
He was such a handsome young chap, and he had come down to breakfast carrying one of my books, which he had found in the guest sitting-room, and which he complimented most beguilingly, so I really couldn’t say anything.
Sometimes, the B&B guests find my books in the random piles of novels I have piled up and on shelves everywhere, and they start reading them, and get quite a way through during their stay – which I should find flattering – and then assume that means they can take the book away with them, gratis. So I’m losing about as much money on the book front as the egg front, and I’m certainly not in line for businesswoman of the year any time soon.
‘I see you’ve gone for the slightly more challenging one,’ I said, nodding to The Girl Who Couldn’t Stop Arguing, and I threw in an example of an argument I could provide, if he wanted, by adding: ‘You can buy a copy on Amazon.’
But he was too nice to argue and he didn’t get the hint. He simply kept the book by his plate of eggs as he woofed them down, and I never did find out if he left with it.
Once they had checked out, I described their stay to the builder boyfriend thus: ‘That was an eight-egger, two bagger, one booker.’
Eight eggs, because on day one I did them an Irish fry-up (one egg each), day two Cool Hand Luke had four eggs in a scramble, which he did in the end share with his missus by giving her a small spoonful after I pointed out he had to, and on day three they opted for a fried egg each on toast.
Two bags, because some people fill both bins, the one in their bedroom and the one in their en suite, requiring more curiously expensive white plastic bin liners for both.
One book, because I think, but I’m not certain, The Girl Who Couldn’t Stop Arguing might have gone her way with them. I’m down to my last box of that, and I’m completely out of Real Life, based on this column. The other day I had to buy some online, which was ridiculous, so I contacted the publisher.
‘Don’t you have a box of them round the back somewhere?’ I said, trying to be self-effacing, but he came back with a very warm reply, suggesting I might have been in touch sooner, and he might like to have another book proposal from me.
So the guests walking off with books, as a jaunty alternative to loo rolls, soaps, speciality tea bags or mini-milks, did me a favour.
As for the eggs, I don’t mind an eight-egger for a three-nighter, which the Canadians were. And their visit coincided with a Swiss couple who ate nothing of mine and spent their entire five-night stay chopping into infinitesimally small pieces of various speciality ingredients they carried down from their room in a large crate each morning and evening so as to construct complex recipes for their low-carb dietary plan, she being cheerful as a milkmaid while chopping, then frying, broiling, boiling and grilling, after which they cleaned my kitchen to a state cleaner than it ever was before.
But when it comes to those who do want the cooked breakfast I offer, I wish they wouldn’t say my least favourite phrase in the English language: ‘I’ll just have scrambled eggs.’ There’s no just about it. Please have a fry-up, my pleading eyes attempt to persuade them as I seat them in the posh dining-room and offer them the full Irish.
If they only knew how easy and cheap it was to chuck two slices of bacon, two sausages and two eggs in a pan. But no, the non-cooking majority who have no idea what’s what in the kitchen will just have scrambled eggs.
Fine, I want to reply, I’ll just crack four eggs instead of two, then start whisking and stirring and fretting about whether to add more milk or more eggs while trying to make toast, before scrubbing a pan of congealed mess forever. It could be worse. If anyone ever says they will ‘just’ have a boiled egg, in a specified state of softness, I shall lose it entirely.
‘Just’ as a prefix to anything sends shivers down my spine. The Frenchman who ‘just’ wanted hot chocolate was in his fifties or sixties and his girlfriend was twenty-something, according to her profile, which I checked, after she came down to breakfast in her pyjamas. ‘Café?’ I asked, and he said: ‘No no, don’t worry about coffee. I’ll just have a hot chocolate.’
So I just made the hot chocolate by just heating some milk in a pan and just adding Cadbury’s and just whisking it up and just pouring it into a mug and just setting it down politely in front of someone I hoped wasn’t Humbert Humbert, while his girlfriend shook herself some Frosties into a bowl.
‘Having fun?’ asked the BB, as he walked back into the kitchen after haying the horses. He looked askance at the Frenchman and pyjama girl. We feel like we’ve seen it all this summer.
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