One of the drawbacks of having four children is that your friends never invite you to stay. I’d like to believe it’s because they don’t have enough room, but even those friends with large houses are remarkably tight-lipped come holiday time. Actually, that isn’t strictly true. We have been invited to stay by a few of our friends. It’s just that we’ve never been invited to stay by any of them more than once.
I know why. It’s because our children are so … how can I put this … rambunctious. Take last weekend, for instance, when some friends invited us to stay in Dorset. They don’t actually own the house in question, but are allowed to stay there by the absentee owner provided they look after his pets, including his prize peacocks.
No sooner had we pulled up in the driveway, than four-year-old Freddie spotted one of these exotic birds, leapt from the car and immediately gave chase. Literally didn’t pause for breath. It was all one seamless movement. ‘Quite a fast runner for such a small boy, isn’t he?’ remarked James, our languid host. Too right. The poor peacock had to take flight to get away from the little terror.
James was remarkably good-tempered throughout the weekend. He’s a composer of theme tunes for children’s television programmes, something I decided to tell seven-year-old Ludo in the hope he’d be impressed. This led to an incident on Sunday morning when Ludo burst into James’s room at 6.30 a.m. and asked him if it was true that he’d composed the music for Waybuloo, the CBeebies hit. ‘Yes,’ said James, pleased to be getting some recognition. Ludo was unimpressed. ‘Why don’t you do the music for something good?’ he asked.
As we drove away, I could almost hear James muttering ‘never again’ under his breath.
But last weekend was nothing compared to our holiday in the South of France a few years ago. We’d been invited by a couple called Charlotte and Guy and we thought our mob wouldn’t come as too much of a shock to them because they’ve got three young children of their own. Unfortunately, their lot were much better behaved than our lot.
I discovered this on the first day when their three-year-old daughter stopped me kicking a large, inflatable ball into the swimming pool. ‘We’re not allowed to play with the pool toys,’ she explained. ‘In case we break them.’ The house belonged to Guy’s parents and they were very protective of their pool accessories, some of which dated back to before the second world war.
I immediately relayed this rule to my children, threatening them with blue murder if they disobeyed, and they all nodded submissively. It was one of those butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-their-mouths moments that always spells trouble.
Sure enough, when I returned 30 minutes later they had methodically gathered up all the ‘antique’ toys and thrown them in the pool. They were now taking turns to run up to the edge as fast as they could and hurl themselves on top of them. Already, several of these treasures were looking limp and bedraggled, having been punctured by my ghastly brood.
Guy was furious and, to make it up to him, I offered to take him and Charlotte out to dinner. Realising the extent of the amends I needed to make, I suggested a nearby restaurant with two Michelin stars and waved away Guy’s protests about the expense. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ I said.
When we arrived at the restaurant I immediately ordered a bottle of champagne and insisted we all have the tasting menu. It was superb — one of the best meals I’ve ever had — and when the bill came I ostentatiously whisked it away, insisting I pay it in full. Only problem was, I’d forgotten my wallet. I went through the usual pocket-slapping routine, but came up empty-handed. Poor Guy had to fork over his debit card and then had to suffer the embarrassment of the waiter bringing it back claiming he didn’t have sufficient funds to cover the humungous bill. He had to give them his name and address and promise to return the next day with the shortfall. It was the perfect capper to a disastrous weekend.
Needless to say, Charlotte and Guy have never invited us to stay with them again. A mutual friend told Caroline and me the other day that they refer to us as ‘the guests from hell’ and I fear this reputation has got around. It’s thoroughly deserved.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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