The Eviction

I have just waved goodbye to two of the most delightful Bed and Breakfast guests I have ever accommodated. They were charming , appreciative and told me , as they left, that our home was the nicest place they had ever stayed at, and that the evening meals were “superb”.

Given that I have recently had the misfortune to host a deeply unpleasant pair of sour faced cretins, I found their kind words tremendously cheering; a tonic to my flagging spirits.

Jasper has no truck with unpleasant house guests, and has recently adopted a zero tolerance approach to rudeness. At the first whiff of animosity, the first inkling of a prickly or fussy personality, he politely tells them that if they don’t like it here, they are free to leave.

It is a sensible rule, and one that he enforced with surprising alacrity, shortly after the arrival of Mr and Mrs Blackiston, who booked in for a weekend break a fortnight ago to celebrate Mr Blackistons Birthday.

They seemed pleasant enough when they arrived. I had put a huge bunch of Roses in the bedroom window, made the big brass bed up with the best White Company Linen, and a tin of home made shortbread on each bedside table.

When they arrived, I showed them into their private drawing room, where they made themselves comfortable in front of the roaring fire while I made them a Pot of tea and bought in a Victoria Sponge which I had made that morning. I spent 10 minutes chatting to them about the usual subjects; the history of the house, the weather, the farm, the cows etc, before I excused myself and started to make their evening meal.

When the Blackistons booked, they expressed a fondness for fish, so I bought two juicy Salmon fillets from Waitrose which I cooked in a parcel of white wine, butter and parsley. I made a velvety hollandaise sauce and served it with jersey royal new potatoes, chantenay carrots and steamed asparagus. Marcus, a friend, was there when I served it up. “That looks fantastic. Lucky sods. ” he commented as I carried the plates through to the dining room.

Mr Blackiston was perusing the bookshelves when I entered. I noticed that he was peering over the rim of his spectacles reading the back cover of Martin Amis’s iconic novel Dead Babies.

I attributed his disapproving expression to the description of the characters being blitzed on drugs during an orgiastic weekend romp, in which they “reel in a hallucinatory haze of sex, acid and porn.”

Mrs Blackiston was looking at a Hunting print on the wall. A charming depiction of our local pack of hounds moving off from nearby Plumber Manor. As she turned to sit down, I noticed that her eyes had assumed a flintiness, and I shook off a feeling of vague unease.

Mr Blackiston put the Amis novel back on the shelf and wiped his hands on his trousers as though he had just picked up a dog turd. I noticed his library book on the coffee table “Steam Engines through the ages”.

He came and sat down at the table, I poured them both a glass of Sancerre and left them to enjoy their meal. I glanced back before I left the room. Mr Blackistons mouth was puckered up like a dogs bottom and he was staring absently at his plate. I told myself that he was probably supressing a fart, and thought nothing else of it.

When I went back in twenty minutes later, Mr Blackiston was nowhere to be seen, and Mrs Blackiston was sitting with her hands in her lap and wearing a prim expression. She didn’t return my smile, or comment as I took her empty plate away.

The atmosphere had altered perceptibly. It felt oppressive and strained. I hesitated uncertainly.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” I asked.

“Not really, no.” she said with a tight smile.

My jaw dropped open.

“No? Oh. Can I ask why not?” I said, staring with bewilderment at the empty plates.

“I don’t like asparagus. I find it most unpleasant.” Said Mrs Blackiston.

“Well you didn’t have to eat it. Did you enjoy the rest of it?”

Mrs Blackiston shook her head and pulled her cardigan protectively around herself.

I was baffled. It was utterly surreal. I was standing in front of a woman who was telling me that she didn’t like my food, yet had devoured every single morsel. I looked around for a doggy bag. Then I heard the loo flush in their en-suite, and wondered if Mr Blackiston had disposed of it that way. I had a sudden image of him trying to poke a salmon fillet and carrots round the s bend with a bog brush. I felt myself growing hot with mortification and confusion.

“Would you like your pudding now?” I asked her.

She nodded, avoiding eye contact, and I walked back into the kitchen.

“Empty plates. Good sign.” Said Marcus.

I shook my head and bit my lip to stop myself crying.

“What’s that matter? Are you okay?” he asked.

“They didn’t like it. They didn’t like any of it.”

Marcus looked like he’d swallowed a pigeon.

“What? What do you mean they didn’t like it? Don’t be silly. Look at their empty plates.”

“She told me they didn’t like it.” I said, taking a fortifying swig of gin and tonic.

“Arseholes!” said Marcus eloquently. “Shall I have a word?”

“No! Please don’t! ” I shouted In alarm. I have seen Marcus have a word before at a Hunt Ball. The man he was having a word with was dropped head first off a balcony into a rose bed.

I grimly dished up the pudding , took a deep breath, and carried the bowls through to the dining room. Mr Blackiston was standing whispering to his Wife. He turned around when I came in, drew himself up to his full height and glared at me. His expression of defensive hostility stopped me in my tracks. I stood there like a rabbit in headlights, clutching two steaming bowls of plum and apple crumble .

Before I had a chance to speak, he pushed his glasses up his nose and said “We’re not happy with what you gave us for supper. You advertise an Award winning evening meal, and that was clearly not. We’re very disappointed.”

I was lost for words. I stood there gaping idiotically at him.

After an awkward silence I managed to speak.

“What was wrong with it?”

“My Son is a Michelin Starred Chef, and I can tell you, the meal you just served is not worthy of an Award.”

“I’m not a Michelin starred chef, and I have never professed to be. The Meal Award was presented by the Tourist board, and with all due respect, you’re the only people who have ever complained.”

I could hear Marcus growling on the other side of the door, and dearly hoped that he wasn’t about to barge in and have one of his words.

At that moment, I heard Jasper come in through the back door. After a brief muffled discussion with Marcus, the door opened and he strode into the dining room.

“Good evening.” He smiled, shaking their hands. “Is there a problem?”

“Mr and Mrs Blackiston didn’t like their meal.” I told him, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Oh, I see. What part of it didn’t you like?” he asked them in a pleasant voice.

Mr Blackiston coughed nervously. Mrs Blackiston was fiddling with her napkin.

Neither of them replied.

“They don’t think it was worthy of the Meal Award.” I whispered, brushing a tear away. I felt giddy with embarrassment and shame.

“Really?” Jasper said, looking at their sullen faces. “You did well to clear your plates then didn’t you?” he asked them with an affable smile.

“Excuse me .” He said, and disappeared up the stairs, leaving me with the poe faced horrors.

“We won’t be wanting dessert.” drawled Mr Blackiston, peering gingerly at the home made crumble with ill concealed disgust. You would have thought I had presented them with two tureens of steaming cat turd.

He tossed his napkin contemptuously on the table and strolled out into the back garden, followed by his prune faced wife.

I trailed feebly after them. “Would you like some coffee?” I croaked.

“I suppose so. We’ll take it out here.” He replied, gesturing to the table and chairs.

“We’ll have to stay here tonight, and look for alternative accommodation in the morning. It’s too late to leave now. I don’t want to drive round these lanes in the dark.”

We all jumped at a voice from above.

“You should have thought of that before you insulted my Wife.” Shouted Jasper.

We all looked up. He was leaning out of the landing window, looking thunderous.

He retreated. There was a brief moment of confusion, before a black microlite suitcase came hurtling out of the window like an exocet missile, shortly followed by a tartan dressing gown, two pairs of sheepskin slippers, a wash bag, a Catherine Cookson paperback, and a tube of Steradent, which Bandit promptly seized and trotted off with. Most of the things landed just inside the freshly cow manured flower bed. Only Mrs Blackistons cream nylon night gown failed to achieve sufficient velocity, and settled on the porch weather vane where it fluttered coyly in the breeze.

Mr Blackiston was chuntering in outrage , but his anger was dwarfed by the force of Jasper’s cold and measured fury.

“You will not stay here tonight. “ he told them. “ You are disgustingly rude and I want you off my property immediately. My Wife is an outstanding cook, and she served you a delicious meal. You are the ones with the problem. When I come downstairs in five minutes, I want you gone. And don’t ever come back.” He growled, slamming the window shut.

I stood, gawping up at the window, awed by the force of his anger. Given his notoriously passive disposition , witnessing such an undreamt of capacity for rage induced cognitive dissonance. It was like watching the Andrex Puppy turn into a Rottweiler.

Marcus appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking slightly stunned. Mr and Mrs Blackiston, looking suitably shamed, were scurrying about in the border, brushing pungent brown clods off their belongings.

Marcus was for once, lost for words as he used a long piece of bamboo cane to retrieve the nightgown from the weather vane.

In less than 2 minutes they had thrown their soiled belongings unceremoniously into the boot of the car, written a cheque for the evening meal and were reversing rapidly down the drive.

Jasper appeared and put his arm around me.

Marcus let out a slow whistle as he uncorked a bottle of wine.

“Fair play mate. You were awesome. The part when the suitcase came flying out….” He smiled into the distance, re-living the moment with evident relish.

We sat outside in the fading light, drinking wine, discussing the awful pair and voicing pity for the next person unfortuneate enough to welcome them into their home.

The phone rang. “Hopefully everywhere will be fully booked and they’ll have to stay at Sherborne Travel Lodge.” I said, as I went to answer it.

It was Jasper’s Mother, calling to ask us to dinner the following night. She sounded anxious. Having agreed and arranged to be there at 7pm, she gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh Thank goodness for that. Some Bed and Breakfast guests have just turned up you see, and they want an evening meal tomorrow night. Very odd couple. We can’t warm to them at all so we’d rather not have to sit round a table on our own with them.”

“What are their names?” I asked faintly.

“Oh, you won’t know them, they just turned up out of the blue. Mr and Mrs Blackiston….”

The Visitors

I should have heard the alarm bells ringing when they phoned for directions.

They called from the lay-by on Plumber Hill, which is less than two minutes up the lane, yet despite my clear instructions (carry on down hill and we’re on the left after the bend), they managed to end up miles away; an extraordinary feat, given the fact that they could clearly see the roof and chimney of their destination yet proceeded to drive off in the opposite direction.

We waited, and waited, becoming increasingly agitated because we were due at a Wedding reception at 7.30, and it was already gone 8. Finally, the phone rang again.

“Be nice.” Warned Jasper.

“Hello!” I trilled.

“Hi! It’s Sal again!” screeched the hapless guest over the deafening roar of a combine harvester.

I scowled and held the phone away from my ear.

“We’re outside the pub in your Village. Which house are you?”

“There isn’t a pub in our village.” I said through gritted teeth.

Silence.

Then, “Are you sure.?”

“I’m quite sure. Eight houses, but no pub. Hang on, let me ask my Husband. It might just be that there is a pub but I’ve never noticed it.”

“Exactly!” came the reply.

Jasper frowned at me disapprovingly.

“No, there’s definitely no pub in our village.” I told her solemnly.

A yodelling wail of frustration.

“Awwww JEEZ MAN! I don’t geddit! I thought you said we were close?”

“That was an hour ago.” I replied menacingly.

“An hour, whatever. So where are we?”

At this point, I pressed the speaker phone button, so that Jasper could be privy to the bizarre conversation.

“Are you asking me?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“At a guess, I think you might be in the wrong village.”

I stared at Jasper grimly as we listened to the muffled sounds of urgent whispering, and an unintelligible groaning sound, followed by the rustling of a map.

“We’re outside the Gaggle Of Geese.”

Jasper looked up in alarm. We stared at each other in disbelief.

“How in the name of arse did they manage to get to Buckland Newton? They were virtually here for God’s sake! How did they get all the way over there? “ I hissed, clutching my head.

He rushed over and snatched the phone from me.

“Hello! Hello!” squawked the disembodied voice.

“Aw Jeez Shane. I got cut off. This is the pits! Damn this shitty part of the world!”

“Hello, I’m here. “ said Jasper, ignoring my outraged expression. He pushed me out into the garden and shut the door.

I glared beadily in at him as I puffed mutinously on a cigarette.

He emerged a few minutes later looking stern.

“Must you be so sarcastic to them?” he asked.

“For God’s Sake! It’s not rocket science to follow a sodding map is it?” I exploded.

“You’re hardly one to talk.” He smirked.

“Remember the time we went to Hay-On-Wye and it took us two hours to find the Pub, because you insisted we keep looking for a lane which turned out to be a crease in the road map?”

“That was different.” I said loftily.

“No it wasn’t. You were adamant you were right and you made me drive up and down that road in the pitch dark until we ran out of petrol in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, if you’d filled the tank up like you were supposed to we wouldn’t have run out would we?” I snapped huffily.

“And if you hadn’t taken the petrol can out of the boot and not replaced it, we could have driven back to civilization instead of having to sleep in the car all night.”

“Unbelievable! Always my fault!” I shouted.

“It is always your fault, now shut your pie hole you silly old harpy.”

We were still bickering when Atlas Taxis pulled into the drive, followed by a navy Golf.

Alan, the driver wound down his window and gestured over his shoulder.

“Found your guests up in Fifehead. They were in a snarl up with a tractor and trailer so I helped them out and thought I’d better escort them the rest of the way. You’ve got a right pair there!”

We all watched as the female driver tried vainfully to execute the simple manoeuvre in between the two gate posts. The car had overshot the turn, and try as she might, the she was simply incapable of correcting the vehicle and coming in from a different angle.

The engine roared, and the car backed smartly into the bank with an ominous crunch. Having finally located first gear, the car shot forward and ended up in the same place as before.

The male passenger, bald headed and sporting a grubby wife beater vest, peered impassively through the plumes of smoke inside the car, as the driver continued to propel them both helplessly back and forth in front of the gate.

With Jasper’s assistance they finally managed to negotiate the entrance, but not before they had driven into a stone pillar, smashing a head light and denting the bumper.

Alan was watching the debacle with his mouth open. He had swung his car around to leave, but before he could make his escape, the driver, a six foot blonde haired blue eyed Amazonian goddess, leapt from the car, yanked his door open and embraced him passionately. We caught a brief glimpse of his startled face before it disappeared in a rift valley of bronzed cleavage as she clutched him like a long lost friend, covering his beard with kisses, commending his kindness – “You’re my Guardian Angel!”- and exhorting him to “Come stay with me if you’re ever in Sydney!”

Alan has never ventured further than the New Forest in his life.

Her protruding bottom wriggled from side to side as she grappled with him, endless brown legs rising majestically into the tiniest pair of gold sequinned hotpants.

Jasper’s eyes were on stalks.

“Close your mouth darling.” I told him.

When she finally released him, his toupe was askew and his eyes were glazed. He had only recently begun driving again after a gruelling triple heart by-pass, having been warned by his doctor to take things easy. I hoped he wasn’t about to snuff it. The last thing I wanted was a stiff on my hands.

Catching sight of Jasper and I, she gave a squeal of excitement and came trotting across the gravel, as fast as her vertiginous heels would allow. Before we were garrotted in a half nelson, I noticed that her skimpy pink crop top was emblazoned with the slogan “My Barbie is a Crack Whore.”

“Would you like some tea and cake?” I asked when she let me go.

She looked at me for a second, then threw her head back and roared with laughter as though I’d said something hilarious.

Affronted, I looked at Jasper for support. His face had assumed the same dazed expression as Alan the taxi driver. His tie was askew and his left cheek was smudged with crimson lipstick.

“You English are so quaint! Thanks babe but I’ll stick to Vodka.” She beamed, producing a litre of Grey Goose from the boot of the car.

Her eyes bulged slightly and she kept rubbing her nose.

I watched through narrowed eyes as she held one nostril and sniffed sharply.

At that moment, the passenger door opened and Shane lurched out. His bloodshot eyes squinted in the sunlight as he yawned and stretched, his vest lifting to reveal a flaccid white gut. A profusion of wiry black pubes sprouted rampantly from atop his low slung shorts, before rambling upwards like a pubic creeper towards his belly button.

He nodded by way of greeting, and scratched absent mindedly at his hairy midriff before wandering off towards the garden. When he reached the lawn, he sat down with a grunt, and lay spread-eagled like a starfish, sighed gustily, and fell asleep.

Having shown Sal to their room, we excused ourselves and set off for the Wedding Reception. As I edged the car out of the drive onto the lane, I caught a final glimpse of Shane lying incumbent on the grass. He could have been a corpse, were it not for the rise and fall of his gargantuan white belly. He had roused the interest of the bantams, who had strutted cautiously over to investigate. Big Bad Helga, thus named for her ample proportions and bold disposition, sidled over nad pecked him viciously on the ear. There was no response.

“Nice couple.” Said Jasper, as we drove off down the lane.

“Lovely.” I agreed.

Sometimes, when confronted with strange situations, words cannot adequately convey what one is thinking. The prospect of vocalizing your thoughts becomes oddly overwhelming, and induces verbal inertia. This was such an occasion.

We travelled to the Wedding reception in slightly stunned silence. By the time we had knocked back a few glasses of Champagne we had forgotten all about our guests.

The taxi dropped us home at 3am, and we went straight to bed.

The alarm woke me at 7.30am. I got dressed and stumbled groggily downstairs to start the breakfast. My stomach churned uneasily at the thought of frying eggs and bacon.

Yawning, I filled the kettle, found a cafetiere and took the milk jug out of the fridge. It wasn’t until I closed the fridge door that I saw Shane sitting at the kitchen table. He wasn’t dressed for breakfast, unless one considers a dirty wife beater vest and yellow y fronts as suitable attire.

In one hand he held a lighter, in the other, an empty Red Bull can, in the centre of which he had fashioned a crude hole. He lit the substance atop the hole and inhaled deeply, before slumping slightly in his chair and groaning soporifically.

“Morning.” I said.

He opened one eye and looked at me, before holding the can towards me with trembling hands.

“Want some Crack?”

“No thankyou.”

He shrugged and closed his eyes again.

Laying the sausages and bacon on a baking tray, I pondered, not for the first time, what an extraordinarily eclectic cross section of people we have accommodated during our time as Bed and Breakfast Proprietors.

I was just about to slide some plates into the warming oven of the AGA when Shane lurched from the table looking agitated.

“Hang on, hang on. There’s something in there.” He said.

I stood back as he opened the door and removed a Cath Kidston side plate, upon which was a small mound of white powder.

“Just drying it out .” He explained helpfully, holding the plate up for my perusal.

“Oh, I see.” I replied with an interested expression. He could have been Michel Roux demonstrating a culinary technicality to one of his students.

I fought a rising tide of nausea as I added two rounds of black pudding to the tray of sausages and bacon. The fat sizzled and spat. I slumped in the rocking chair and watched Shane put his stash back into the warming oven.

“What the fuck are all these leaves and shit?” he asked.

“Flowers.” I replied faintly.

He stared at me as though I was insane.

“Flowers?” he asked incredulously.

“I use that oven to dry them in.” I explained.

“No shit. Is that what that oven’s for?” he asked. He looked genuinely interested.

“No. It’s for drying out Cocaine.”

He looked at me with raised eyebrows and a “Are-you-telling-me-porkies?” expression, before hooting with laughter.

“You’re a funny fucker!” he hooted, shaking his head.

He opened the pantry doors and started rummaging about in the shelves.

I watched in dismay as he ransacked the neatly ordered stacks of beans, packets of sugar, jars of jam and cereals. An open packet of Basmati Rice fell out, spilling its contents all over the floor.

“What are you looking for?” I asked crossly. I am OCD where my pantry is concerned.

“Bicarbonate Of Soda.”

“Why? Are you going to bake a cake?”

He threw me a pitying look. Grumbling, I opened a cupboard and handed him my last pot of Dr Oetker.

“Don’t use it all. I’m making the cricket teas next week and I need it to make sticky toffee slices.”

“Are you taking the piss?” he asked.

“No. Are you?” I replied, gesturing at his makeshift Bong and the detritus of illegal substances all over my kitchen island.

He pointed at me and tittered approvingly, “You’re sharp!”

“What time would you like breakfast?” I enquired.

“I don’t eat breakfast. Or Gluten. Bread! Evil stuff. So bad for you.” He said. He was deadly serious.

I gazed out of the window at the chickens scratching about in the herbaceous borders. The horses were dozing under a tree in the Orchard, and the geese were basking in the morning sunshine.

Soon, the house would be my own again. They had to check out at 11am after all. Feeling immensely cheered by the thought, I turned and beamed at Shane, who had vanished behind a cloud of smoke.

“It was lovely to meet you. I hope you’ll excuse me but I must go and pick my daughter up from her Grand Parents, then we’re going straight out to lunch with friends.

There was a pause, whilst he exhaled and grinned, toad like through the fug.

“Been nice meeting you too. You know what? It’s so lovely here, I think we’ll stay another night…..”

Bandit in Love

Bandit is in love.

Having relentlessly pursued Stuttering Bernard’s pretty Cocker Spaniel bitch, Cassie, for almost a year (and impregnated her after a brief liason in the Church yard – the pious old dears who were hurrying up the path to Evensong had to avert their eyes and circumnavigate the rampant pair who were fornicating with lusty abandon in the middle of the footpath), he has recently transferred his affections to a rescued mongrel bitch of dubious origins, who recently moved into The Old Rectory with Lord and Lady Fairfax-Rawlings.

Bandit and I rode past Cassie’s house yesterday; she has evidently taken a very dim view of the fact that he hasn’t visited for over a fortnight, as she refused to let him sniff her bottom, rebuffing his advances with a furious growl and an impressive display of teeth. Bandit rammed his tale between his legs and slunk back out onto the lane on his belly, looking hurt. I reminded him that hell hath no fury than a woman scorned, and that he had bought it on himself, shirking his responsibilities as a Father, and playing fast and loose with every bitch within a five mile radius. He mooched along at the horses feet, looking glum, until a pheasant shot out in front of him, whereupon all thoughts of rejection vanished in an instant, as he took off after it, barking joyously. Perfidious little beast.

His track record is impressive by any standards. His numerous conquests encompass a diverse selection of breeds and sizes, both pedigrees and commoners. He seems to have a particular predilection for exotic breeds, even managing to squire a blue blooded miniature Yorkshire Terrier named Gloria, whose lady owner, Marjorie, had come to enjoy a few days rest and relaxation at our Bed and Breakfast, having just won Best Of Breed at Crufts. They arrived on a cold and rainy afternoon, basking in the warm glow of success, and after a brief walk in the field to allow Gloria to relieve herself after the long journey, the dog was wrapped in a baby pink cashmere blanket and placed lovingly in her Custom made sheepskin and leather dog bed on the back seat of the car.

“She needs to rest. She’s had an exhausting few weeks haven’t you my darling. I’ll leave the window half down so you’ve got plenty of air.” Simpered Marjorie, closing the car door.

Gloria stared up at us, eyes baleful beneath the exquisitely tied pink satin ribbon that adorned her top knot. She gave a resigned sigh and went to sleep. Marjorie placed the base unit of the baby monitor, I kid you not, on the front seat of the car, clipped the portable on to her belt, and followed me inside for afternoon tea and cake.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting on the sofa trying not to let my eyes glaze over as she breathlessly extolled the virtues of her cherished pooch.

“She’s my best friend. She’s been my saviour since Alfred passed away.” She said tremulously, her eyes brimming with tears. I nodded sympathetically and topped up her tea.

“ We eat together at the table, she has her own place setting! …blah blah blah….her pedigree is outstanding, I mean - she’s practically Royalty! Blah blah blah…I’ve been inundated with people offering their stud dogs, but I’ve turned them all down. Don’t get me wrong, we’re talking about the finest pedigrees in the country, if not the world! It’s just that I don’t feel she’s ready for pups yet. She’s got the world at her paws!” she tinkled with laughter at her own joke.

I chuckled obediently.

Marjorie was regaling me with an anecdote about Gloria’s first show, when we heard a noise on the monitor. A strange scraping sound, followed by an excited whimper and a low growl. Then a brief scuffle, and the sound of claws scrabbling against leather. Another whimper, a triumphant grunt, and a steady rhythmic “grr grr grr grr”.

Marjorie leapt up as though she had been electrocuted.

“Gloria!” she screamed in anguish, dropping her tea on the floor and waddling to the window as fast as her fat legs would carry her. I rushed after her. Bandit stared back at us through the back window of the car, a Machiavellian grin on his lugubrious face as he pumped away as though his life depended on it. Gloria’s pointy little face peered out from beneath his shaggy chest hair, her eyes bulging slightly from his pounding weight. Her pink tongue had slipped sideways and was dangling deliriously from her mouth in a paroxysm of erotic pleasure.

“OH NO!!! GLORIA!” sobbed Marjorie, as she rushed to her rescue.

The coupling necessitated a fraught trip to the vet , who promptly administered the canine equivalent of the morning after pill and kindly assured a snivelling Marjorie that no harm had been done, and that “these things happen”.

Marjorie thought otherwise. She checked out immediately and launched a vociferous complaint with the Tourist Board, urging them to warn other potential guests about our “Wild, over-sexed Spaniel.”

Bandit’s other noteable conquests include Mabel, (the Vicar’s Pug), Lulu, (our next door neighbour’s Bichon Frise), Trixy, (the Jack Russell belonging to the elderly lady who delivers the Parish Mag,) and Dido, my Mother- In- Law’s brown Labrador, with whom he enjoyed an illicit encounter in the fruit cage last summer.

Mother In Law stumbled across them whilst picking redcurrants one morning. Her cries of horror and frantic attempts to pull them off each other were in vain - they were already “knotted together” by that stage. We had no choice but to wait until they had separated. For 20 minutes we watched them beadily through the foliage of strawberry plants as they stood bottom to bottom, panting. Finally, Bandit swaggered off without so much as a backward glance at Dido, who was swiftly bundled into the car looking rather ashamed. There ensued yet another mad dash to the Vet, who promptly administered the Canine equivalent of the morning after pill and a stern lecture about safe sex

However, I digress. I began by telling you about Bandit’s new love interest…..

I first met her one Sunday whilst I was cooking Lunch. I had just taken the lamb out of the oven and was starting to make the gravy when I heard a scuffle in the bushes outside the back door. Two bantams shot out of the hedge squawking in dismay and flapped off around the side of the house. I crept forward and peered into the undergrowth, when out popped the head of what was arguably the ugliest dog I have ever seen.

Rheumy eyes peered out of a battle scarred face and one torn ear stuck out at right angles. Broken yellow teeth protruded from the under shot jaw in all directions like old grave stones. A wide flat nose gave it the appearance of the ugly bull dog in the Tom & Jerry cartoon. It looked as though it had been whacked in the face with a cast iron frying pan. It’s overall appearance was one of astonishing deformity – it’s nostrils were virtually aligned to the rest of its face, which prevented it from breathing without an accompanying virtuoso of grunts and snuffles.

The dog gazed up at me, apparently unabashed by my expression of unflattering disbelief; the peppering of grey around the mis shapen muzzle suggested old age. It was probably immune to peoples negative responses to its physical appearance, I thought, as it wriggled free of the bush and hopped towards me.

It was then I noticed for the first time that it only had three legs.

Overcome with pity, I bent down to stroke it. Two fangs of slimy drool dribbled to the floor as it licked my hand and I reeled at the fetid stench of its breath. Poor thing I thought to myself, and went off to find a dog biscuit. My sympathy dissipated quicker than a fart in a hurricane, when I returned to the kitchen to find it pushing out an improbably enormous turd on my newly polished oak floorboards. I stopped short and stared in disbelief. The dog looked me straight in the eye with a dead pan expression as it thrust slowly, puffing its cheeks with the effort of divesting itself of the last drips of poo.

The smell hit me and I fought the urge to retch. I have a famously weak stomach. I cannot even wipe away a cat’s eye bogey without urging, so this steaming matterhorn of smelly faeces was a grim predicament to be faced with. A noxious mixture of rotting meat and putrefying badger. The dog sighed, turned and wandered casually back out into the garden while I put my hand over my mouth and whimpered.

Lily wandered in trailing Peppa Pig.

“Poo!” she said brightly, pointing at the stinking mound.

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Poo!” she said again, and started to scream with laughter.

There was a sudden commotion outside, and the cat shot in with its fur standing on end wearing an expression of abject terror, closely pursued by the dog who was clearly out for blood. The cat made a mad leap for the safety of the kitchen island but misjudged the distance and dangled for a moment scrabbling wildly whilst its assailant closed in.

Realising that death was imminent, the cat dropped to the floor and made a dash for the open kitchen window. It made good its escape this time, disappearing with a yowl into the flower bed. The dog made a final lunge as it leapt to safety, knocking into Lily. She teetered precariously for a second, before sitting down with a resounding splat in the pile of shit. She stopped laughing immediately and gazed up at me while her face registered shock, horror and disgust before bursting into tears.

The animal sauntered out, stopping briefly to squat in front of the AGA. After a concerted effort, it managed to produce a small puddle of pee.

I picked Lily up and rushed towards the door with her, holding her at arms length whilst dollops of dog poo dropped from her broderie anglaise dress on to the floor. The smell was indescribable. I was still bending over the flower border when the In-laws appeared round the corner in their Sunday best, holding wine and flowers. Their greetings were drowned out by Lily’s lusty bellows of rage, and my helpless retching precluded any pleasantries on my behalf.

I attempted to smile and nod. Mother In Law stopped in her tracks as she caught sight of Lily’s poo smeared lower half.

“Is that dog mess?” she cried , clutching her pearls in horror.

I nodded, choking, and gestured to the dog which was trotting down the drive way looking pleased with itself.

“Oh! That's Lord and Lady Fairfax-Rawlings' new dog. They got it from Battersea. It’s called Bonny.”

Bonny. I shook my head. What an incredible misnomer.

It transpired that Bonny had paid several visits to other houses in the village, although had not defecated in any of them. She had, however, killed a pair of Indian Runner Ducks at Church Cottage, and stolen a string of pork sausages and 4 lamb burgers intended for the Major’s Post Bridge night Barbecue. Evidently the spicy Piri Piri Marinade was not to her taste. She went home and promptly regurgitated the pilfered items with great gusto, onto Lord and Lady F-R's treasured Chesterfield sofa.

“Pete doesn’t like the dog very much. He says it’s not what he expected.” Said Jill as she helped Lily out of her turd covered frock.

“Really? Gosh.” I replied wiping my eyes.

The phone rang. It was Lady Fairfax-Rawlings, sounding anxious.

“Have you seen our dog? She went missing about twenty minutes ago. We're frightfully worried!”

“Don’t panic! She just popped over to take a dump in our kitchen! She’s on her way back now. Little Tyke!”

“Ah yes, I’ve just seen her in the garden. I think she’s en route to you now.” I replied.

“Oh, thank Goodness! She didn’t make a nuisance of herself did she?”

“Not at all.” I said, with a hollow laugh, as I sloshed bleach into a mop bucket of boiling water.

The next time she appeared in the garden, Bandit was sunning himself on the lawn. I thought he’d take one look and run for the hills, so I was astonished when he fell instantly, and irrevocably in love with her. He was virtually cross eyed with lust as he fussed round her, licking her ears and sniffing the greasy tufts of fur around her bottom. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder I thought, as he tried to mount her. The sight produced cognitive dissonance. It was like watching a hunky young buck trying to seduce a female Jeremy Kyle contestant.

He has pursued her relentlessly ever since, bolting down the lane to gaze through the French windows at her, his longing handsome face framed by wisteria, like the front cover of a Barbara Cartland novel.

Thus far, his efforts have been in vain. Bonny remains unmoved by his rapt attentions. Her disinterest seems only to have fuelled his desire to have her. He spends hours skulking round the borders of The Rectory, jumping up at the windows to catch a glimpse of her pugnacious, snaggle toothed face.

When at home, he lies in his bed, sighing and trembling, or he howls as though his heart is about to break.

It would appear that he has met his match in Bonny.

Watch this space….

The Joys Of The Untrained House Guest

The Bed & Breakfast season is well underway. Due to the exceptionally fine weather of recent weeks, we've received an unprecedented number of bookings for the time of year.

People are booking last minute weekend breaks, and escaping to the Countryside to relax, unwind, and enjoy rural Dorset in all her sunny glory.

Thus far, all of the guests have been delightful; friendly, easy going, and gratifyingly complimentary about everything from the home-made marmalade to the imposing ingle-nook fireplace (which we lovingly restored to it's former glory, having discovered it by accident one Saturday afternoon - but that's another story.)

I have always enjoyed running the Bed & Breakfast. I like meeting new people, i love cooking, and the money is good. Obviously, opening your home to total strangers is not without its drawbacks. Guests are rather like Forrest Gump's Proverbial Box Of Chocolates - you never know what (or who) you're going to get next.
Every B & B Owner can recount at least one grim story, in which their faith in human nature is tested to a greater or lesser degree. It is deeply dismaying to realise that you are sharing your home with someone whose personality or habits you find repellent, particularly if their undesirability becomes apparent within the first five minutes of a seven day booking.

I'm a pretty personable character, but smiling sweetly and exchanging pleasantries at breakfast with a man who has been wiping his bottom on your White Company hand towels, is no mean feat.

Finding a urine soaked mattress when you make the bed in the morning, will lower even the chirpiest of spirits. Exuding good will and bonhomie requires enormous effort, particularly when you suspect that the wetters ( a fit, healthy couple in their mid twenties), are not afflicted with weak bladders. The absence of incontinence pads lends weight to your burgeoning theory. Your suspicions confirmed beyond doubt by the book on the bed side table. "SEX GAMES - all the things you've heard about but never dared to try."

That's why they've come away for the weekend, you think sourly as you peel off the sodden sheet. God forbid they saturate their own bed.

Jasper came in for breakfast as i was about to stuff the offending sheet into the washing machine.

"Why are you pulling that face?" he asked.

"Look at it! Covered in wee!" i replied furiously.

"What do you mean Wee? How can you tell?"

"Because it looks like the bloody Turin shroud!" i hissed.

"Poor people, they're probably really embarrassed."

"It wasn't an accident!" i spluttered.

He looked non-plussed.

"They were weeing on each other."

"Why would they want to do that?" he frowned.

"Oh dear Lord, do i have to spell it out? They were being kinky, you know, 'Water Sports'." I felt myself blushing.

The penny finally dropped.

"Oh, i see."

"Oh, i see? Is that all you've got to say about it?"

"What do you want me to say?" he shrugged. "There's a waterproof mattress protector on the bed, so it's not that bad. At least they're having fun."

I gawped at him.

Jasper's philosophical stoicism is one of his many admirable qualities. Whilst i have always appreciated the fact that he remains gloriously unperturbed by my propensity to over-dramatize a situation. i couldn't help but feel that his laissez - faire attitude about the pee related sexual proclivities of a pair of strangers, under our roof was a little unreasonable, particularly when i had to clean up after them. I had expected a small but discernible degree of disapproval. I was disappointed.

I was about to argue my point when there was a knock at the door, followed by the nasal Brummy tones of the peeing pair.

"Hello! Anyone in?"

I bristled. Jasper wagged a stern finger at me.

"Behave yourself and don't be rude." he said, before opening the door.

The gruesome twosome stood there grinning as though they hadn't a care in the world, clutching a wicker hamper, rolled up towels, and carrier bags stuffed with swimming trunks, shorts and snorkels.

"Fort we'd head to the beach." chirped the male. Black chest hair sprouted rampantly from beneath his wife beater vest and his pudgy arms glistened with Tanning Oil.

'Go on then, off you f***.' i thought, glaring at his crotch.

"Don't suppose you know what the weather forecast is?" the female enquired breezily.

"Mainly cloudy with some golden showers" i replied before i could stop myself.

"Ow No!" she squawked. "I hate getting wet!"

I snorted derisively.

"It's not going to rain, that was yesterday. Sunny all day today." said Jasper hastily, stepping them out into the hall way and closing the door behind him."

"That was very naughty of you." he said, shaking his head when he returned a few minutes later.

"Well honestly! Why can't we just have normal people come to stay?" i asked despairingly.

"We've had lots of people who aren't weird."

"Not for ages. Remember the family that stayed last month?

"Ah, yes. The Etheringtons. Not exactly The Waltons were they?" he said grimly.

Mrs Etherington had sounded perfectly normal when she had telephoned. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather and she told me how much she was looking forward to a family holiday.

Having booked a family room for one night, for herself, her Husband and their two boys, aged 8 and 14, she enquired whether our bantams were in a secure run. My initial assumption that she was concerned that they were protected from the Fox.

"No, no, i'm not worried about the Fox. It's our Ryan. He has some issues you see." she said vaguely.

"Don't worry, lots of children are frightened of poultry. They can't get out." I told her reassuringly.

"It's not whether they can get out; it's whether RYAN can get IN." she explained.

"I'm sorry Mrs Etherington, i don't understand."

"Ryan loves animals, absolutely adores them, but he doesn't know his own strength. He picks them up to cuddle them, and, well, sometimes they just, don't survive."

There was a pause, while i digested the information.

"But there haven't been any incidents for ages." she said hastily. "There was an unfortuneate mis-hap on a school trip to Farmer Palmers, involving a rabbit, but that was over six months ago. He's getting the help he needs now."

A shiver ran down my spine, and i was filled with foreboding. I fought hard to suppress a macabre image in my minds eye, of the headless bodies of my beloved bantams lay strewn about their pen, twitching and spasming in their death throes. The infant murderer looks on with a half smile, while Ave Satani plays in the back ground - a gruesome farm yard parody of The Omen.

"Are you still there? Mrs Miller? Hello."

"Yes, yes, I'm still here." i muttered, cursing my notoriously over-active imagination. I would just have to keep a close eye on the little Anti-Christ. We could shut the dogs and cats in the stables during his stay. The chickens enjoyed a maximum security des res, complete with electric perimeter fence, so they were safe from his murderous intentions, although i couldn't help wistfully thinking how much i'd like to see him try to get in.... I could plug the battery circuit into the mains. That would cure his issues; give him an electric shock therapy he wouldn't forget in a while....

A titter escaped.

"Did i say something amusing?" Mrs Etherington asked testily.

"Not at all." i said smoothly. "See you next week. Goodbye."

They arrived the following Wednesday afternoon, two hours earlier than arranged.

I came back from town to find their car outside the house; an ancient Vauxhall Cavalier, the colour of brackish pee, relieved in places by archipelagoes of rust. I surreptitiously peered in the windows. ( It's surprising what you can deduce about guests from their cars interior.) The first thing i noticed was the plethora of anti-animal cruelty stickers festooning the back window.

BAN HUNTING! screamed one. PETA. AGAINST FUR! raged another.

Not the most auspicious start, i thought gloomily, given the snarling foxes head on their living room wall, and Granny's ancient mink coat hanging on the hall stand.

The back seat was strewn with grubby, snot smeared muslin squares, empty crisp packets, and a handful of Mister Men books with the pages savagely ripped out and torn into pieces. Most ominous of all , was the decapitated Peppa Pig, whose severed head had been rammed face down into the splay legged crotch of a mutilated, shorn-haired Barbie Doll.

On the dash board was a tatty paperback - "Aggression and anti-social behaviour in children; a Parents Guide".

Despite the heat of the day, they were waiting for me in the living room. Although they could have occupied the space for no longer than half an hour, the smell that their presence had generated, hit me like a sledgehammer. A witches brew of sour milk, sweaty socks, farts and B.O.

Mrs Etherington was sitting huddled like a little mouse on one end of the sofa. She wore a dirndl pinafore dress, a greying pie frilled blouse and a pair of battered old espadrilles, through which protruded her grubby toes.

Mr Etherington was standing by the window, texting furiously. He glanced up briefly as i came in, muttered a vague hello, and resumed jabbing away at his mobile.

Mrs Etherington scowled furiously at his bald spot. "You'll have to excuse HIM." she spat.

"He's a little pre-occupied."

"No rest for the wicked!" i said in a jolly voice.

She looked at me with a pitying expression, and shook her head.

Suddenly, a bright ginger head popped up from behind the sofa, wielding a replica gun. Black eyes glinted evilly from beneath a neanderthally low brow, as he aimed his weapon at my chest.

"BANG BANG!!" he screamed.

I smiled brightly at him. "Oooh, you shot me!"

"YOU'RE DEAD BITCH! SHUT UP AND GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" he hissed.

"What have i told you about swearing ?" his Mother said wearily, without turning round.

Ryan made an obscene one fingered gesture at me behind his Mother's back.

"Did you enjoy the cake?" i asked, edging back behind the door in an attempt to block him from my peripheral vision.

"No, it was gross." cackled the odious little twerp.

"That's enough Ryan." murmured mr Etherington, without looking up.

"Enjoy your tea. Supper's at Seven. " i told them, bolting back to the kitchen, where i shakily poured myself the first of several glasses of wine.

By 7.30pm, they were sitting round the dining room table. Or rather, Mr and Mrs Etherington were sitting a the table whilst their off-spring chased each other round it screaming. The cat appeared in the window. Vile Ryan made a lunge for it's tail and it disappeared into the shrubbery with a yowl of dismay. Mrs Etherington sat scowling at her husband who was gazing vacantly out of the window, both seemingly oblivious to their rampaging children. When i turned around, Caleb was gouging a chunk out of the beautiful antique side board, which had belonged to Jasper's Great Grandmother.

Resisting the urge to bash his head against the wall, i politely asked him to stop, whereupon he burst into noisy sobs. Mrs Etherington gave me an accusing look, and started unbuttoning her shirt.

"Come to Mummy sweetheart." she said in a grotesque little girl voice.

Instantly, the snivelling stopped; his eyes lit up with glee as he rushed over. It all happened so quickly. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a gigantic nipple and a droopy blue veined tit, before the little brat's snot smeared mouth closed over it and he began to suck.

There was a wail of jealous protest from Ryan.

"Come on then, you too." sighed Mrs Etherington.

Out came the other tit, which Ryan dropped to his knees and latched onto as though his life depended on it.

I watched revolted, fascinated, appalled, whilst the pair of them gulped away at their mother with evident relish. Unable to listen to the obscene slurping noises any longer, i went and stood outside the back door. Jasper was taking his overalls off.

"What's the matter? You look weird." he said.

"Don't go in there." i whispered , shaking my head.

He ignored my warning and walked in. I heard the squawk of dismay as his eyes alighted on the surreal tableau. He U-Turned abruptly and emerged looking distressed.

"I can't get the image out of my head." he said with a shudder when we were lying in bed later that night.

"Me neither. Gross wasn't it?"

"One of those kids has got a moustache. It must have tickled her nipple."

"Don't think about it. You'll have nightmares."

At 3am i awoke with a raging thirst and went downstairs to get a glass of water. I paused outside the Kitchen door, listening. Someone was crying. I pushed the door open. Mrs Etherington was sitting at the kitchen table wearing a pink nylon nightie and weeping over a tumbler of Vodka. Her face was puffy and blotchy, her eyes like carbuncles. The tears were coursing down her cheeks and had formed two little puddles on the kitchen table.

"Are you alright?" i asked, idiotically.

She stared at me uncomprehendingly and took an enormous gulp of vodka, followed by a deep breath.

"Should have seen it coming." she said bitterly, shaking her head.

She was shivering like a whippet. I handed her a blanket and sat down opposite her.

"All the signs were there. I just didn't want to see them.." she continued.

"The late nights, the hushed phone conversations, constant texting, taking his mobile to the bathroom with him."

I was starting to get the picture. If i wasn't mistaken, Mr Etherington was indulging in some extra marital frolicks. I wondered if the Oedipal sight of his wife giving suck to his 8 and 14 year old sons had adversely affected his desire to have sex with her. I strongly suspected it might, but i kept the thought to myself.

"Is he seeing someone else?" i asked gently.

"SCREWING someone else! I bet they're at it like rabbits. Filthy slut she is!" she hissed furiously.

"Are you quite sure?"

"I've just managed to get hold of his phone. I've read all the messages. All from HER! Do you want to see them?"

I didn't, but I sat quietly while Mrs Etherington read them out to me. I was inwardly squirming - Some of them were very explicit.

"They met in a Cafe. She was reading Plato. Plato! She's supposed to be an intellectual, and she can't even spell Cunnilingus! Or Clitoris!" she spat bitchily.

"I can't wait to lock your member."

"That's just a typo. I and O are next door to each other on a type writer." i said helpfully.

Mrs Etherington glared at me.

"Anyway, she's welcome to him. I've given him the best years of my life, and this is the thanks i get. BASTARD!" she shrieked, slamming her glass on the table.

She leapt up and began pacing up and down the kitchen. The static in her nylon nightie crackled as she moved.

Her eyes darted wildly from side to side. She looked like a caged animal. I surreptitiously hid the knife block under the kitchen sink.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" i asked feebly.

With a maniacal titter sloshed the remaining vodka into the glass and swigged deeply. I cringed as it dribbled down her chin and splattered her bony chest.

It seemed there was no way out of the situation. I noticed, with a twinge of alarm, that she had pushed her chair against the door, thereby preventing my escape.

She tottered unsteadily for a second and glowered at me over the rim of her glass.

"Have a drink." she slurred.

I wasn't about to argue.

"Oooh, what a good idea!" i replied with a matey grin.

The bottle of Vodka was empty. She lurched towards the drinks cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Martini, which i loathe.

"My favourite!" i trilled, as she sloshed it into a mug and thrust it into my hand.

I had always believed that our atavistic survival instinct kicks in when we are confronted with a potentially dangerous situation. That in times of stress and adversity our automatic pilot takes over, and bears us away to safety on a heady rush of adrenaline.

Not in this case, i thought grimly. Here i was, trapped in a confined space with an inordinately drunk, mentally unstable female. I'd be pretty angry too if i were her, i reflected, taking a fortifying swig of neat Martini.

I tried to ignore the two nubbly, round damp patches forming on either side of her belly button.

I finished the Martini with a shudder. Mrs Etherington rushed forward, rubbery breasts jiggling, and topped me up. The damp patches were getting bigger.

"What do you think I should do?" she asked, fixing me with blood shot eyes.

"Oh gosh, i don't know. " i said gravely, looking into my glass to avoid eye contact.

"Rubbish!" she shrieked, smacking her forehead with a clenched fist.

"You must have an idea what you'd do if you were me!" she demanded, stepping closer.

Her breath was sour. I caught a stench of rancid milk and dried sweat.

Her eyes were bulging slightly and i noticed with alarm, the vein throbbing angrily on her clammy forehead.

She fumbled in her dressing ground pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. She shook three out with trembling hands and knocked them back with a slug of Brandy.

"PLease, help me. I don't know what to do." she whimpered pleadingly. In a split second, her demeanor had switched from bristling aggression, to plainitive vulnerability, and back again.

"And you can shut up! If i want your opinion i'll ask for it!" she hissed at the microwave.

"Bloody electrical appliances. Always going on at me; telling me what to do and how to do it. Interfering bastards! " she muttered.

I nodded sympathetically, and fought a rising surge of nervous hysteria.

She stood on one bristly leg, muttering darkly to herself, and throwing suspicious glances at the kettle.

My ears were throbbing with the effort of trying not to giggle. I have always found the wrong things funny. The graver the situation, the bigger the urge to howl with laughter; it's not born of callousness or insensitivity - it's something to do with releasing tension.

I was wondering how much more i could stand before i exploded, when i heard a creak of floorboards in the hall way. Mrs Etherington heard it too.

Her head whipped round. She glared at the kitchen door with preternaturally wide eyes. She looked like Sissy Spacek in Carrie, just after they tip the bucket of pigs blood over her head at the prom night.

The handle turned, the door creaked open. Mr Etherington's bearded, bleary eyed little face appeared.

What are you doing down here Sue? Why is there a chair against the door?" he asked, sidling in. He was wearing grey Y fronts and a Green Peace vest.

I sidled towards the door.

"No You don't!" she barked, rushing forward and slamming the door.

"What's all this about?" frowned her Husband.

She snorted derisively.

"WHat's this all about?" she mimicked.

"I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOUR TART!" she screamed!

Mr Etherington looked like Wind In The Willow's Toad after he'd crashed his car.

"DOn't be so ridiculous woman. What the hell are you on about?" he spluttered.

"Don't you call me ridiculous you little shit! I know all about your precious Sylvia!"

"Sylvia is one of my students." Mr Etherington replied in a sanctimonious voice.

"Don't you lie to me! I've seen the text messages. I know all about your sordid little trysts in Travel Lodge, and what you get up to. You disgusting man!"

"How dare you read my text messages!" Mr Etherington exploded. He didn't look remotely sorry.

"How long has it been going on?" she demanded.

"I'm not discussing it in front of Mrs Miller." Mr Etherington sighed.

"Don't mind me." i said.

"HOW LONG!" screamed Mrs Etherington, hurling her brandy glass at him. He ducked just in time and it smashed into smithereens against the wall.

"For Gods sake, control yourself woman!" shouted Mr Etherington.

Mrs Etherington rushed forward and punched him in the face. There was a sickening crack as his nasal bone shattered.

Mr Etherington was moaning in pain and horror. He collapsed on a chair looking faint while i rushed around trying to find a roll of kitchen towel to mop up the blood.

"I'm leaving! I'm going to find a big cliff and jump off it, and then maybe you'll be sorry!" shrieked Mrs Etherington, grabbing the brandy bottle and making for the door.

"You can't go out now. It's minus 3 out there." i said.

"Good, I hope it kills me!" she sobbed, staggering out of the back door and disappearing into the night.

To cut a very long story short, the Police were duly summoned and the search for Mrs Etherington began. She was discovered at 5am, passed out in a neighbours goat pen, beneath an old jute rug. Notwithstanding some nasty scratches from falling into a blackthorn hedge, and a torn night dress, she was none the worse for her ordeal.

A very apologetic Mr Etherington came and settled the bill at 6 am and informed me that they wouldn't be requiring breakfast. Mrs Etherington was sitting in the passenger seat of the car looking bewildered.

"Thankyou Mrs Miller. I'm so sorry you were privy to that dreadful scene." Mr Etherington said, picking up his suitcase.

"Not at all." i smiled.

I was watching the car drive away down the lane, when Jasper walked in yawning.

"Why is there glass and blood all over the floor?" he frowned.

"I'll tell you in a minute, but first i need a Brandy...."

Easter Madness

Easter Bank Holiday is upon us, and at the risk of sounding like a kill-joy, I am not in the mood.

I normally spring out of bed on Good Friday, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as the proverbial Easter Bunny, fizzing with feelings of end-of-term excitement and relishing the delicious prospect of a three day holiday. Three days! The hedonists equivalent of a three course banquet, during which one feels justified in spending 72 hours in a soporific stupor of sun bathing, drinking wine and socialising, preferably simultaneously.

Having just recovered from a nasty bout of gastroenteritis, I am in no mood for frivolities. I am feeling fragile and crotchety. If I were a horse, instead of champing at the bit with enthusiasm, I would be mulishly refusing to enter the stalls, whilst grinding my teeth and swishing my tail in a paroxysm of ill temper.

I have, thus far, managed to conceal my irritation. Jasper is so excited about drinking beer in the sun that I would rather bleach my eyeballs than pizzle on the roaring flames of his Bank Holiday Bonfire.

I grumpily went shopping yesterday for BBQ food. The Co-op was jam packed with people doing the same thing. Lily sat in her seat, gawping, as i steered the trolley through hordes of sweaty men in tight vests and weird footwear. As i trawled the aisles i wondered where said men materialize from. Do they crawl up through the man holes thrice annually? I never see them at any other time of the year except bank holidays, when they descend en masse, like a swarm of perma-tanned brill-creemed peacocks to deplete the towns beer supply. I watched them furtively, as they jostled and vaunted in front of the fridges, in their dazzling white slip on trainers. The wonderful smell of freshly baked bread that normally wafts about the store, was smothered by the cloying stench of Davidoff's Cool Water aftershave.

Lily gazed around her with an awe struck expression. Easter Eggs were piled high at the end of every aisle. A wall of golden wrapped chocolate bunnies wearing scarlet ribbons round their necks gazed down as i tried to negotiate my way around 2 trolleys stacked with booze. Lily stretched her arms towards them and looked beseechingly at me.

"Plis! Plis!" she gabbled, pointing desperately at them.

I grabbed a packet of mini eggs from a shelf, eliciting a beady look from a jobsworth shop assistant who was building a pyramid of Thomas The Tank Engine easter Eggs.

Lily spied Thomas' smiley face and shrieked with glee. My heart sank. Her infatuation with the cheery Tank Engine and his cronies began on her first birthday, when she was presented with a mini Thomas and friends train set. Since then, her fondness has morphed into a form of infant hero worship. Whilst Thomas appearing on TV is enough to make her giddy, she is utterly besotted with the Fat Controller; the sight of his poe faced, portly figure sends her into a whimpering reverie of hand wringing excitement. Her cheeks flush pink and she giggles coyly, clearly in thrall as she watches from beneath lowered eyelashes as he bustles industriously around on the platform in his top hat.

Jasper and I find her infatuation bizarre and hilarious in equal measure.

(Jasper's initial concerns were assuaged when i informed him that i had harboured a huge crush on King Rollo until i was nearly ten, and my Best Friend was tormented by inappropriate thoughts about Zippy from Rainbow until she reached puberty.)

Although Lily is progressing very well with her speech, she hasn't yet learned to say (or rather, shout) her hero's name in full. She manages the "Fat" part, but has only mastered the the first syllable of "Controller".

Confined to the privacy of our home, this unwittingly vulgar truncated version, has been met with great amusement, prompting epic giggling fits and whoops of laughter.

It didn't seem nearly as funny, standing in the middle of a crowded supermarket, hemmed in by members of the public.

Cringing, I managed to push the trolley through the gap towards the check-out. Lily, losing sight of her Top Hatted hero, let forth an ear piercing scream of rage, before bellowing

"FAT C*NT!!" at the top of her voice.

"Shhh. Lily NO !" i hissed.

She began to bounce frantically up and down in her seat, squirming and trying to head butt me in the tits, as i bashed the obstructing trolleys out of the way and try to broke into a run. There was a resounding crash as the corner of the trolley smashed into the aluminium strip of the freezer compartment.

"FAT C*NT!" Lily screeched lustily, and burst into noisy sobs.

"Ooh, look Lily, would you like a Haribo?!" i squealed in a demented sing-song voice, shoving a bag of sweets at her clenched fists. She hurled them viciously aside and kicked her legs up and down in rage. Everyone was staring. A little old lady on a mobility scooter shook her head in disgust, her face twitching like milk coming to the boil. I saw her mouth the word "shocking" to her friend, who looked equally scandalized.

A middle aged man clutching a box of beer and a fray bentos pie attempted to shuffle sideways past us. For a few seconds, he was wedged, his rippling belly pinned mercilessly by the unyielding metal rim of our trolly. He displaced a box of wotsits with his gargantuan backside as he squeezed by, panting slightly.

"FAT C*NT!" bellowed Lily, looking accusingly at him through a fug of tears.

The man turned puce.

"She doesn't mean you." i said in a strangled voice, as Lily lashed out in temper at his straining gut. `

"I'm so sorry." i cringe. "Lily, you DO NOT HIT PEOPLE!"

The man grunted and muttered something under his breath before he waddled off.

Face blazing, i made the long walk of shame to the check out, while Lily sobbed copiously and moaned "Fat C*nt" in a pitiful voice at everyone who walked past.

By the time we got to the car i was sweating slightly with horror and felt faint.

I arrived home to found a note on the door from our new neighbours.

Dear Jessica,

I mentioned to your Mother In Law that we would like to go to Church tomorrow for the Easter Service, and she suggested that we might go along with you. It would be nice to meet some people, and Jill thought that you could introduce us to the other villagers. We hope you don't mind us asking. Look forward to hearing from you.

Beryl and Derek Samson.

I had been planning to give Church a miss and laze in the garden with the Sunday Papers instead. I unpacked the shopping sulkily before making a batch of Easter biscuits which burnt underneath, and a Sinmel Cake which curdled and emerged from the AGA airless, dense, and sunk in the middle. When i tried to stick the mini egg "disciples" around the perimeter they all rolled into the centre.

My mood was not improved when i logged onto FaceBook and a friend appeared on chat with the words "Hello Fatty Pants." I bristled. A second message popped up.

" I meant Farty Pants. Predictive text!"

I pursed my lips sourly and went off-line.

I checked the time. I had half an hour left before Lily awoke from her midday sleep. Just enough time to have a bath. A nice hot soak would calm my shattered nerves.

I was just abut to step into the foamy water when the phone rang.

"Hello."

The end of the line was silent and i almost hung up , when a voice said

"Hel - hel- hello."

It was stuttering Bernard from Church Cottage.

"Hello Bernard, how are you?" i trilled through gritted teeth.

Bernard cut straight to the chase.

"Your bl-bloody d-d-d-d- dog has ma-ma-mated with my b-b-b-bitch again. They're locked to-together in the ch-ch-churchyard. You be-better come and ge-get him...."

Happy Easter everyone.

The Bring and Buy sale

By 10am, the nieces had produced 2 mouthwatering batches of chocolate brownies, a tray of rice crispie cake and a tin of shortbread.

The kitchen resembled a bombsite. There was a fine layer of flour on every surface, Caster sugar and hundreds and thousands crunched underfoot, and the overflowing bin was spewing empty maragarine tubs and eggshells. The freshly painted ceiling was now liberally splattered with brown goo and the cat was licking the butter.

The Church Fund Raiser was due to start in under half an hour and i hadn't even changed yet. My wheedling pleas for the nieces to help clean up the mess, fell on deaf ears. They were both too busy gloating over the fruits of their labour and writing swirly labels to advertise their wares.

"Cho clit Browneys - £5 each." Abi had written in giant bright pink letters on a piece of A4 card.

"I think that might be a bit expensive for some people." i suggested,

"And erm, that's not how you spell chocolate. Here, i'll write it and you can copy it."

Abi shook her head and held the pen out of my reach.

"No, i want to keep it like it is. " she replied, cocking her head to one side and admiring her handi-work.

"It's very pretty." i agreed in a placatory tone, "but let's just change the spelling shall we?"

She looked up at me and blinked rapidly before sniffing, a sure sign of impending tears.

"Mummy says it doesn't matter about spelling as long as i try my best." she said in a small voice.

"And she's absolutely right. " i said, feeling like I'd kicked a puppy. "You're a very clever girl. Let's put it with all the other signs so we don't forget. YUM YUM!"

The door opened and Jasper came in for breakfast.

"Good gracious - you girls have been busy!" he exclaimed, admiring the delicious smelling goodies.

The girls giggled in delight as he helped himself to a piece of rice crispy cake.

"And what have we here?" he wondered aloud, pointing at a flowery tin.

"They're mine." piped up Abi proudly, handing him the placard.

I bent over the sink refusing to catch his eye.

"Hmm, they sound fascinating. What, may i ask, is the key ingredient?"

"CHOCLIT of course. Derrrrr!" sighed ABi, shaking her head.

"Ah, of course!" he tittered. "Silly old me."

Forty minutes later, we had loaded the trestle tables and cakes into the car and after collecting the eggs and topping up the geeses water, we set off. It was a beautiful day; the lane was flanked with wild daffodils whose vibrant heads swung merrily in the sun, and everywhere you looked, the trees and hedges were blossoming with the first signs of spring.

"Can you slow down a bit? My pen keeps slipping." said Abi, who was labelling the eggs with black felt tip "£2.50 per egg. Bargin!"

The village hall was bustling with activity when we arrived. The Organiser, Bunty Bealing, came scurrying over when she saw us arrive, clutching her pearls dramatically and fanning herself with her clip board.

"Jessica! I thought you'd never come!" she cried, looking at her watch.

"Now, off you go and set up, there's a dear. You're there next to the Tombola." she said bossily, propelling me across the hall with a firm shove.

The Colonel was already manning his table and taking furtive sips of gin from a perspex pint glass when he thought no one was looking, whilst half heartedly trying to prize open the rusty latch of the antiquated tombola with a screw driver.

He smiled fulsomely and waggled his moustache when he saw me approach.

"Morning Mrs Miller! How fortuitous to be pitched next to you and your goodies! What culinary delights have you made today?" he boomed, peering at the various tins and tupperware through his pince-nez.

"RICE CRISPIE CAKES!" he bellowed.

"FARM HOUSE SHORTBREAD - my favourite!"

I whipped the brownies out of sight just in the nick of time.

Twenty minutes later the doors opened to admit the public. There was the usual rugby scrum as people rushed at the tables to grab any bargains, avoiding eye contact as they used their elbows to joust each other out of the way. There was a minor altercation involving two elderly ladies and a pair of hideous floral cushions from the nearly new stall. Neither lady had realised that that the cushions were for sale as a pair, until they both attempted to buy them singly, at the same time, whereupon Bernard, the stall holder, a timid looking man afflicted with Tourettes , apologetically informed them of his mistake. The two old ladies eyeballed each other over the trestle table. Had they not been separated by a mound of bric-a-brac, there is little doubt that there would have been a scuffle. Gone were the sweet, stoop-backed misty-eyed old dears. It was clear from their puckered mouths, flared nostrils and clenched fists, that neither was leaving without the others cushion. I pitied poor Bernard, whose condition was compounded by stressful situations. His head was now twitching violently every few seconds, each spasm accompanied by a low keening sound.

The old ladies turned and glared at him expectantly as he jerked helplessly from side to side. They looked as though they were waiting for the punch line.

He stared back at them for a few seconds, growing redder and redder, before opening his mouth and bellowing "BUMSANDCOCKS!!" at the top of his voice.

There was a stunned silence. Hollie and Abi's were open mouthed as they turned to gauge my reaction.

The day was saved by the Vicar, who strode forward smiling broadly, and guided the chuntering old dears to the safety of the Home Produce Stall, on the pretext of enlisting their help to judge the Best Cake Competition. Within seconds, all thoughts of cushions had been forgotten. The noise and chatter resumed, and Bernard slumped on a stool mopping his sweating brow with a piece of kitchen roll whilst kindly old Mrs Holloway from Church cottage plied him with sweet tea and Garibaldi's.

The nieces finished laying out plates of cakes and biscuits on the gingham table cloth, and waited for the punters. Within five minutes, and to Abi's great delight, a friendly young couple had handed over a fiver for two of the "Bargin" eggs. Having persuaded her to drop the price of the brownies, she sold the lot within half an hour, accumulating a grand total of £15. Having counted it carefully into her Hello Kitty wallet, she toddled off to the Toy Stall to spend her loot.

The Fund raiser was a record breaking success. All morning, people called in, to spend money and donate things to sell. A constant stream of people turned up bearing cakes and biscuits for the table. No sooner had a cake been put on display, before it was sold.

By 2pm, things were starting to quieten down. I was counting up, when an angelic looking toddler with blonde ringlets ran up and gazed hungrily at the remaining batch of pink iced fairy cakes. I smiled and pushed the plate towards him.

"Would you like one?"

"Thankyou." He whispered shyly, and reached out to take one with an awestruck expression.

The cake was halfway to his open mouth when a short dark haired woman wearing a stetson appeared in the doorway. She stood on the threshold looking around with a supercilious expression, until she spotted the little boy.

"CRISPIN! " she squawked. Her Cow Boy boots clunked noisily against the wooden floorboards as she strode towards us, mean little eyes ablaze with anger.

"How dare you run off like that! Oh my GOD - Is that a cake?"

As little Crispin watched her approach, his crestfallen face suddenly assumed a look of defiance. He looked like an escaped convict cornered by the Police. He hesitated for a milli-second, before ramming the whole thing into his mouth. His cheeks bulged and crumbs spewed as he tried to chew.

The Mother looked aghast. From her reaction, you would have thought that her son was chomping on a fresh dog turd.

"NAY! NAY!" she squawked. "What have i told you about Junk food? BAD BAD BAD!"

Crispin swallowed and looked unrepentant.

I stepped forward, cringing slightly.

"I'm so sorry, it was my fault."

She threw me a brief, appraising glance, a faint but unmistakeable sneer playing at the corner of her mouth as she took in my scruffy ensemble ( faded jeans and battered jodpur boots), and mentally consigned me as non-PLU. (PEOPLE LIKE US)

I smiled and offered her a glass of squash. I certainly wasn't about to take offence at some jumped up short-arse dressed as a barrel racer.

At that moment, Mr Wilmot, the Church Warden, appeared and introduced himself.

"Hello! You must be the lady who has just moved into the Old Rectory." he beamed.

"Yup, that's me." she replied, briefly twitching the corners of her mouth into a smile which didn't reach her cold fishy eyes.

"Mummy, i'm hungry." whined little Crispin. He was gazing at Lily's Rice Crispy Cake, like a dickensian waif drooling over a suckling Pig.

"Alright sweedy. Hang on a sec." drawled CowBoy Woman. After a brief rummage in her Gucci tote, she produced a small tupperware box full of chopped raw veg.

Crispin stared balefully at the unappetizing contents, before nibbling dutifully on a carrot baton.

A harassed looking woman in her late forties entered the hall, pushing a pram with a sleeping new born baby. She waved at CBW and came over, fanning herself with the parish magazine.

"That's my little sister!" said Crispin proudly, pointing into the pram and tickling the baby under the chin.

"She's a pretty girl. How old is she?" i asked.

"Eight days." he replied, kicking a piece of raw broccoli under the table when his mother wasn't looking.

"Mummy and Daddy are going on holiday tomorrow for nearly three weeks" he continued.

"How exciting! Very brave of you to go abroad with such a young baby." i smiled at CBW.

"Erm, it's supposed to be a holiday?" sneered CBW.

I looked at her, confused.

"As in, Crispin and the Baby are staying here, with Nanny." she said slowly, as though explaining something to a cretin.

"Oh. Right." I didn't know what else to say.

"Nanny is going to London next week to see her brother, so Tracy is going to look after us for three days." said Crispin, stuffing a handful of spinach leaves down his underpants. His Mother had her back turned and was fiddling with her mobile phone.

"Tracey is the new cleaner." volunteered The Nanny as she undid the baby's sleepsuit to change the nappy.

"Oh. Right." i said again.

The baby began to scream.

CBW dropped her phone back in her bag and turned to the Nanny, who was soothing the wailing infant with one hand, and trying to prepare a bottle with the other. CBW yawned loudly and checked the angle of her stetson in a compact mirror.

"Right, you can walk back with the pram Nanny, it does the baby good to get some fresh air, and i'm so exhausted at the moment. I need to get home and have a long relaxing bath before James gets back tonight."

I looked down at Nannys worn slip-ons, and the blisters forming on her heels. The Rectory was two miles away, mostly up hill. She looked worn out, but she nodded wearily and slung the heavy changing bag over her shoulder, preparing for the long trudge home.

CBW didn't bother to say goodbye. She was halfway to the door when she turned back to Nanny and called

"By the way, we'll have lamb tonight. There's a leg in the fridge and plenty of veg in the garden. You'll need to go into town when you get home because there's a case of wine to be collected from Majestic, and we're out of red currant jelly and a few other things. I'll leave a list on the table. Oh, and Nanny, please don't burn the roast potatoes again..."

It was such a beautiful day on Sunday, that i decided to make the most of the spring sunshine and clean out the animals.

I was out of bed at cock crow, and after a quick coffee i set off to muck out the pigs. I gathered my wheelbarrow and loaded it with shovels and brushes, and a bucket of milk and leftovers (the porcine equivalent of a three course banquet) and trundled along the moss dappled path to the piggery, breathing in the fresh morning scent of damp earth , and watching the first fiery rays of the sun shining brilliant red through the dark slumbering outline of whitmore coppice. Such enchanting scenes always fill me with an irrepressible sense of joie de vivre, and i stood for a moment or two, gazing at the wreaths of mists rising from the fields, listening to the chorus of bird song, and relishing the solitude.

The rest of the village was still asleep; i was entirely alone. I sighed happily and carried on my journey. Euphoria was short lived however. Rounding the corner to the pig sty, i gasped in horror, to behold an empty pen. Porgy and Bess had escaped!

I clambered over the fence and rushed into the spacious brick outhouse which comprises their living quarters. It was deserted. Closer inspection confirmed my suspicion that they had managed to wriggle through an opening in the back wall. It was a surprisingly small space and must have required considerable time and effort to squeeze themselves through. A small pile of dung lay on the floor in such a position as to suggest that Porgy, the fatter of the two, had become wedged in the gap and remained there for some time, stuck fast like a cork in a bottle, until managing to work herself free.

I glanced around in a state of panic. Where to start looking? Bulbarrow hill lay in the distance, its ridge shrouded in mist. Could they have possibly got that far? I didn't think so.

I faced east towards Sturminster, and had a surreal vision of them trotting into the Co-OP to buy the Sunday Papers.

I turned again and looked across the village. A wisp of smoke was curling from the chimney of the In-Laws cottage next door. Feeling giddy with horror, i rushed to the garden fence, bracing myself for a wreckage of uprooted shrubs, ransacked borders and an erstwhile immaculate lawn, pitted with snout shaped holes and strewn with pig poo.

My knees wobbled with relief to discover that everything looked normal in their garden; and there was nothing to suggest that the fugitives had paid a visit.

l retraced my steps and climbed the fence into the apple orchard. I was debating whether to call the Police, when i heard the umistakable sound of porcine grunting. The mist parted, to reveal the pigs. They were standing less than five yards away, rocking rhythymically back and forth as they scratched their hairy pink sides against the trunk of an apple tree. They grinned broadly when they caught sight of me and came belting over to say hello, wedging their fat faces into the feed bucket and slurping noisily as they guzzled the warm milky slops.

I heard a low whinny, and the muffled thud of approaching hoof beats. Tilly and Billy came bustling around the corner to investigate. Bestowed with remarkably social dispositions, Porgy and Bess stopped stuffing their faces and ran towards them to make friends. Billy, who had never seen a pig before in his life, snorted in horror, before turning tail and bolting out of sight.

Roused from his twilight sleep by the oinking, grunting and neighing, Bandit, Jasper's deviant Spaniel, appeared through the gloaming, beaming like the village idiot.

Pigs are his fetish - he finds them unbearably arousing, so the sight of them skipping and slurping prompted an instantaneous erection. He skilfully dodged the bucket that i hurled at him, before attempting to resume his debauched efforts of the previous Sunday, ( before he was interrupted by the Colonel's wife).

By the time i had restrained Bandit, secured Porgy and Bess, and tracked down Billy (who had leapt the paddock fence in a pig induced panic), Lily was calling me from her nursery and my nieces had arrived to make chocolate brownies for the Village Bring and Buy Sale that afternoon.

And i still hadn't cleaned the pigs out....