Bolting down the back hallway, I realised I was running away from the guests. I shut the door marked private and collapsed on to the dirty old dog sofa in the boot room.
‘You’ll never guess what I’ve done,’ I texted the builder boyfriend who was in London. ‘Left the yard hose on,’ he texted back, for I often risk emptying the well when I’m on my own by forgetting to turn off the stable yard tap after topping up the horses’ water at night.
‘No. Worse. The French people arrived and I hadn’t heated the water. You’ve got to get it on a timer,’ I said, attempting to blame him. ‘I’ll do it when I’m back,’ said the BB. Then: ‘Have you turned the yard hose off?’
Had I? I ran outside to check, vaguely aware there were guests calling me from the other side of the private door to ask for something unreasonable.
Like my hero Basil Fawlty, I find myself either running away or being horribly sarcastic. For example, as no one eats normally any more, when people start questioning the bread in the morning, and when even the gluten-free option doesn’t end the debate, I mutter: ‘There’s some nice grass outside…’
Luckily, they are too busy rejecting everything on allergy, environmental and/or humanitarian grounds to hear me. All the English want to talk about is their food ethics and intolerances. All the Americans want to talk about is whether you’re going to install a geothermal heat pump. After 20 minutes of either you’re praying for death. The French, German and Dutch travellers are the best.
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