Home Alone

Home Alone

Last Thursday, Jasper went to the pub to play Skittles. Lily was staying with her cousins overnight, and I was relishing the blissful prospect of uninterrupted solitude and trashy TV.

I was curled up on the sofa watching X factor with a glass of red wine and a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s, when the phone rang. Sighing, I turned down the volume and answered it. No one spoke, but I could hear heavy breathing on the line.

“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”

Except for a shallow, rasping groan, there was silence. Then the line went dead.

I dialled 1471. “The caller witheld their number.”

I gulped, as an icy trickle of fear ran down my spine. In my peripheral vision, Simon Cowell was reducing a chubby wannabe starlet to a snivelling wreck . The phone rang again.

My heart was pounding as I answered it.

“Hello? Who is this?” My voice was shrill with fear.

There was no reply from the caller, just a chilling death rattle, like Voldemort in Harry Potter.

I crawled on all fours over to the window and peered out into the blackened garden.

The breathing was getting heavier.

I scrambled to my feet and bolted around the ground floor of the house, closing windows and locking doors.

There was obviously a serial killer outside the house and he was coming to get me.

I recalled the opening scene in the first Scream film, where Drew Barrymore is alone in the house one night making popcorn, when the phone rings. She answers it gaily, thinking it is her boyfriend. It is not her boyfriend. It is a psychopath who tells her that he is coming to get her. The ensuing scene, in which she is chased around the house by a maniac wearing a mask of terror, before being brutally stabbed and hanged from a tree, is indelibly printed on my mind. I slept with the light on for 6 months after watching it.

I was convinced that I was about to suffer the same fate. As I cowered behind the sofa, listening to to the blood pounding in my ears, I wondered whether my killer would don the same gruesome mask, the unforgettable, black and white evocation of Edvard Munch’s “Scream”. He might, I grimly reflected, put his own stamp on his disguise, perhaps in keeping with the rural location of his latest murder. I was assailed with nightmarish visions of being pursued around the house by a knife wielding, life size Postman Pat. In glorious technicolor, I watched him decapitate and disembowel me, before fleeing through the maize field behind the house, cackling demonically and clutching my liver as a trophy.

Jasper would return from Skittles to find my blood spattered corpse suspended from the pear tree and my severed head spinning crazily on the weather vane. Or maybe placed facing out of the pop hole of the hen house. Or even in one of the nesting boxes….

Summoning every last vestige of bravery, I took a deep breath and squeaked:

“I’m not scared of you. If you try to break in here, you are very foolish because my two dogs are vicious. They are highly dangerous and very protective! Do you hear me? Don’t say I didn’t warn you. They’ll go for your throat, and I won’t try to stop them.!”

I looked at the dogs, both comatose by the wood burner. I nudged Trevor with my toe and pleaded with him to bark. He opened his only eye, clouded with cataracts, and staggered arthritically to his feet before flopping back down with a groan.

Bandit was no more useful.

“Kill Bandit!” I hissed desperately.

He grinned at me, tongue lolling. I watched in despair as he opened his back legs and began to lick his testicles.

I couldn’t stay behind the sofa, I decided. It was the first place he would look.

I frantically wracked my brains for a good hiding place. I decided that the cupboard under the stairs was my best bet. It was pitch black, and I could hide behind the log pile.

I roused the dogs and dragged them, protesting, towards the door. They both grumbled and huffed, reluctant to leave the soporific warmth of the open fire.

I was trembling violently as I opened the kitchen door. What if he was already in the house?

The hairs on the back of my neck were prickling as I turned off the kitchen light and crept across the floor towards the dining room on my hands and knees, followed sulkily by Trevor and Bandit. I paused by the sink and groped around in search of the knife block. Holding a filleting knife between my teeth, a bread knife in one hand and a rolling pin in the other, I resumed my journey, until I reached my hiding place, praying to God that it afford me some protection from the manaic.

The door creaked open. I shoved the dogs in to the pitch black, musty smelling hole and crawled in after them. Bandit, refusing to acknowledge the perilousness of our predicament, yawned loudly.

Not to be outdone, Trevor farted wetly. I pressed a shaking hand over my nose as the putrid odour filled the cramped space.

I strained my ears. It was eerily quiet. Then I heard the unmistakeable sound of someone turning the handle of the front door.

I felt Bandits hackles bristle beneath my hand. He growled softly.

I almost fainted with terror as I heard the kitchen door open and close. He was inside the house!

I clamped my hand around bandits muzzle and pleaded tearfully with him, not to make a sound.

He shivered and made a low keening noise.

I backed into the corner, until I was pressed against the damp wall. My heart was hammering against my ribs as I waited…

His footsteps were slow and measured on the wooden floor boards. He was savouring his evil game, relishing every moment of my terror. My skin tingled with fear as I listened to him walking round the house, pausing in the door way of each room, before continuing his search. The footsteps receded for what seemed like an eternity. He must have gone up the back stairs. I jumped as I heard the groan of floorboards from somewhere above. The blood was pounding in my ears as he descended the stairs directly above my head into the drawing room.

He stopped briefly halfway down. I imagined him running a gloved flinger slowly down the gleaming, razor sharp blade of the murder instrument. Machete or Hunting Knife I wondered. I stuffed my sleeve in my mouth and prayed for the end to be swift and painless. I wondered, bizarrely, whether my blood would stain the newly laid floor boards. The hand clutching the croquet mallet was slippery with sweat as the foot steps approached my hiding place.

There was a long pause, and then the click of the latch.

As the door creaked open, a burly black outline was silhouetted against the gloom of the drawing room beyond. My atavistic survival instinct kicked in as light flooded the space. I leapt up with a vulpine scream, smashing my head on the slanted ceiling, tripping over Trevor, and dislodging a camping set. Jasper’s bellow of terror was drowned out by the resounding crash of a dozen tent poles as they came clattering down around me, dislodging a teetering pile of Christmas decorations. In the ensuing melee, a row of hurricane lamps were knocked off the shelf and smashed to pieces on the stone floor.

The dogs scrambled out barking in confusion, as I clutched the walls for support and blinked into the sudden blinding light of a 60 watt bulb.

Jasper’s ashen face stared back at me.

“Are you trying to scare me to death?” he whispered shakily, clutching his head.

“It’s you!” I whimpered. I slumped against the wall as my knees gave way.

“Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?”

I staggered upright into his arms and burst into tears.

“ Why are you sitting under the stairs in the dark? What’s wrong with the living room?”

Abject terror had given way to dizzying, overwhelming relief. I couldn’t speak for a few minutes.

I stumbled out into the drawing room and collapsed onto a sofa.

“I had some silent phone calls.” I sobbed. “It was man. He was heavy breathing and he withheld his number. I thought you were him. I thought he’d broken in dressed as Post Man Pat and he was going to slit my throat and dangle me from the pear tree!” I blurted out.

“Why would anyone want to slit your throat and dangle you from an apple tree?” he asked.

“There are some weird people in the world. Look at Jack The Ripper! He was an evil monster!” I said defiantly.

“Not as evil as Post Man Pat.” He countered.

“Don’t you dare take the piss out of me! Do you have any clue what I have been through? Look at the state of me! I thought I was going to die!” I wailed, through a fresh bout of tears.

“Poor Bunny.” Jasper said soothingly, patting me on the shoulder.

“And what is Postman Pat’s murder weapon of choice?”

“What do you think?” I asked snivelled.

He scratched his head.

“Ooh, well, he’s spoilt for choice really. Um, his Satchel? Mrs Goggin’s rolling pin?”

I gave him a withering look before replying in a mongol voice

“DUH! A knife??”

“Ah! So Postman Pat carries a knife? Very conventional.”

I feigned a lofty indifference to his jibes.

“You might think this is funny, but the fact remains that there is a maniac on the loose out there, who phoned me twice this evening on a withheld number, and refused to speak. I think we should call the Police.”

Jasper looked at me with an expression of dawning realisation.

“What?” I demanded.

“Old Bob phoned you.”

I stared at him. Old Bob is ninety, has chronic emphysema and spends a good deal of his time attached to a ventilator. He never misses a skittles match, watching the action with rheumy eyes from his mobility scooter and banging his walking stick on the ground to demonstrate his approval. Old Bob hasn’t spoken since 2002.

I gawped at him.

“Why would Old Bob phone me?”

“His daughter gave him an I Phone.”

“What in the name of arse for? He can’t even talk.”

Jasper shrugged.

“But why would he phone me?” I repeated.

“I don’t think he meant to. His daughter asked us all to put our numbers in it, in case of an emergency. I saw him fiddling around with it while we were playing. He must have pressed call by accident.”

He turned away, but not before I saw him smirking.

“Very amusing.” I said acidly.

He pulled me to my feet and gave me a hug. He was shaking with laughter as he led me through to the living room and handed me my wine.

“There are some good films on Tonight. What do you want to watch?” He asked , still sniggering as he picked up the remote control.

I took an enormous gulp and sat down wearily.

“Anything except Scream….”

Monkey Jungle

Monkey Jungle

The next morning, I was up at first light, giddy with anticipation about our trip to Longleat Safari Park and Monkey Jungle.

I looked in to Lily’s nursery on my way downstairs. She was sleeping soundly, her long eyelashes fanning her rosy cheeks, oblivious to the excitement in store for her.

I pottered around the kitchen enjoying the early morning solitude. All was quiet. The sun had not yet risen over Bulbarrow Hill, the lawn was wreathed in mist, and the dogs slumbered in their beds by the AGA.

Betty the Bantam sidled in to say good morning, and watched beadily as I buttered bread, grated cheese and packed sandwiches into Tupperware boxes.

Lily appeared in the door way, trailing her blanket and yawning sleepily.

Mindful of Jasper’s pathological aversion to Monkeys, and aware of the possibility that he might attempt to extricate himself from what he clearly deemed as The Day From Hell, I diligently ensured that Lily was sufficiently wound up to a degree that precluded him from refusing to come.

Lily’s powers of persuasion are legendary, and having presented her with a plethora of Chimp videos on You Tube, and repeatedly informed her that “Daddy’s taking you to see the Monkeys! TODAY!” I was confident that she wouldn’t let me down.

By the time Jasper came in for breakfast, she was so excited that she was almost hyper-ventilating.

“MONKEYS!” she screamed, jabbing frenziedly at a video depicting a gang of loutish Chimpanzees plundering a Rover. The elderly driver and his Wife could only look on helplessly as their assailants wrenched off the hub caps, snapped the aerial, and in an unmistakeably measured and deliberate act of vulgarity, defecated on the windscreen before turning around to smirk at his victims.

As a boorish Alpha Male urinated on the bonnet before swaggering off with a section of roof rack, I registered Jasper’s stricken expression, and felt a small twinge of guilt.

“MONKEY WEE!” hooted Lily, shrieking with laughter.

“I’ve got a really bad head ache. I don’t think I’m well enough to go.” Jasper said, slumping in a chair.

“Don’t tell Porkie Pies!” I chided, putting a bacon sandwich in front of him.

“You’ll enjoy it once you get there. Hurry up, eat your breakfast and then we can be on our way.”

He looked utterly aghast as he chomped dolefully on his bacon sandwich. His pessimism had a deflating effect on my high spirits; as I put the cool bag into the boot of the car, I grumpily reflected that he might just pretend not to feel suicidal at the prospect, for mine and Lily’s sake. After all, I don’t mope about when I’m forced to endure three hours of mind numbingly boring Formula 1. Nor do I protest when he gleefully informs me that I can’t watch the film I’ve really been looking forward to because the sodding football’s on.

It was only Monkey Jungle for heavens sake! Anyone would think that I was forcing him to partake in a late night cycle through the dodgy part of Guatemala on a 3 seat tandem.

We’re going to have a lovely day, I thought stoically as I slammed the boot shut and strapped a delighted, babbling Lily into her car seat.

I was making a flask of tea and humming with determined optimism when Jasper walked in a couple of minutes later. He was literally shuffling, dragging his feet as though he were wearing shackles. I bristled crossly. He walked with the tragic faced, slump shouldered resignation of a death row inmate about to face the electric chair.

I finally snapped.

“Oh for Gods sake! What in the name of arse is the matter with you? You’re being totally ridiculous! They’re monkeys, not bloody Chechnyan Rebels. They’re not going to shoot us, or chop our heads off. Can’t you at least pretend to be looking forward to a nice family day out?”

“I can hardly wait.” He said in a dead pan voice.

“Don’t be facetious, it doesn’t suit you.”

With overwhelming reluctance, he walked to the car and flopped into the seat with a defeated sigh.

“Off we go!” I trilled as I started the engine.

My jolly smile was met with a withering stare.

A few minutes later we were driving through Sturminster when Lily suddenly started screaming in anguish.

“BARBIE! BARBIE! WANT BARBIE!” she bellowed lustily, kicking furiously at the back of Jasper’s seat.

I suddenly remembered seeing Barbie on the kitchen Island just before we left. Lily would be inconsolable until they were re-united, such was the strength of her devotion to the pint sized plastic slapper.

“It’s no good, we’ll have to go back.” I sighed.

Jasper huffed and puffed and crossed his arms grumpily as I turned the car around.

“Can’t we just get this over and done with?” he tutted.

I could hardly hear him over Lily’s grief-stricken sobs.

“Do you want to drive around Longleat with her screaming in your ear?” I snapped.

He looked incredulous.

“I don’t want to drive around Longleat at all. Can’t you drop me off at the Happy Eater?”

I took a deep breath and feigned a lofty indifference. The rest of the journey home was silent, apart from Lily’s pitiful snivelling. Having been finally re-united with the wretched doll, she fell instantly asleep.

“And off we go again.” Sighed Jasper.

I ignored him and turned the radio up to drown out the frosty silence.

The journey was uneventful, although Jasper’s impermeable gloom lifted briefly after an impromptu trip to the Macdonalds drive-thru. He made a few witty asides about other road users, and even remarked that he was looking forward to seeing the giraffes.

I smiled inwardly, and silently thanked the Lord for the consoling properties of an egg McMuffin.

“Why are we stopping here?” he asked, as I pulled up outside a village shop.

“I’m going to buy some bananas.” I said breezily.

“What do you want bananas for?” he demanded.

“Duh! For the Monkeys.” I said, reaching over and scrabbling in the glove compartment for my wallet.

“You can’t! Feeding the Monkeys is strictly forbidden.” He shouted, making a wild grab at the £10 note.

Five minutes later I emerged from the shop brandishing three bunches of bananas. I put them on the floor of the passenger seat. Jasper was so cross he refused to look at them.

“You’ll get thrown out. There are rangers everywhere, watching people through binoculars.”

“I’ll be discreet .” I said soothingly.

He shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

Lily woke up. “Monkeys!” she trilled happily.

Jasper closed his eyes and sighed wearily.

I turned up the volume and sang gaily along to Dusty Springfield on Radio 4 in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

The song ended. The mellifluous tones of John Humphries announced the next song.

“And Barbara Thwaite from Norfolk correctly guessed the name of our next band. Well done Barbara – Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you The Monkees!”

“MONKEYS!!” screeched Lily, clapping her hands in delight.

This synchronicitous turn of events was too much for me. As the first twanging strains of “I’m a believer!” thundered from the speakers, I was consumed with the giggles.

Jasper’s disapproving expression only compounded my hysteria.

I convulsed over the steering wheel in a delirium of helpless mirth. Three hours of pent up tension came pouring forth like a burst dam. I snorted, whooped and shouted. I laughed until my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe properly. I tried to regain control, wiping my eyes and taking a deep breath.

“It’s not even that funny. “The Monkees.” Big deal.” He tutted.

I was still sniggering when we joined the long queue of cars snaking towards the entrance.

I excitedly handed over £25 to the lady in the ticket booth and slotted the CD into the stereo.

“Welcome to Longleat Safari Park. You are now entering the giraffe enclosure.”

At that precise moment, the heavens opened and it started to pour with rain. Visibility was reduced to zero, as the windscreen wipers struggled to clear the deluge.

Jasper snorted and shook his head.

“Just a passing shower.” I declared stoutly, as I parked next to the fence.

“Would you like to see the giraffes Lily?” I said excitedly.

Lily looked at me doubtfully before turning to gaze at the rain bouncing off the window.

“You’re not getting out in this?” Jasper asked incredulously.

“Bit of rain never hurt anyone.” I replied with a cheery smile.

Jasper looked as though he’d swallowed a pigeon.

I had already realised that I had failed to bring any coats or water proof clothing on our expedition.

Determined not to lose face, I grabbed a bin liner and leapt out into the down pour. I gasped in shock. The rain lashed down like icy needles, turning my white linen top transparent. Freezing mud oozed between my toes as I squelched round the car in my flip-flops.

I opened the door to get Lily out. She returned my grim smile with an expression of baffled disbelief.

“Come on, I’m taking you to see the Giraffes!” I trilled, lifting her out of the seat and into the monsoon. Her initial shock rendered her momentarily speechless, as I attempted to fashion a make shift umbrella out of the plastic sack, before making my way over to the giraffes barn. I slipped twice on the way there and almost dropped her. Her squawks of protest were drowned out by the sound of the rain bouncing off the barns corrugated roof.

I squinted through the deluge, into the barn. The giraffes were hidden from view. I gave a yelp of excitement as I made out a protruding section of hind leg.

“Oooh! Look Lily! See the Giraffe!” I squeaked, shivering as cold water dripped down my back.

Lily took a deep breath and started to howl.

“WET!” she screamed, arching her back and kicking wildly.

A gust of wind blew the bin liner away and she grunted in shock as the rain soaked her hair.

“DADDY!” she shrieked. “WANT DADDY!”

As I plunged back across the grass which was by now, muddier than the Glutton’s Circle in Dante’s Inferno, I noticed a gang of youths under a shelter, openly laughing at me. I scowled at them and carried on.

I got pack into the car, panting and shivering.

“I can see your bra.” Said Jasper helpfully.

I looked down. My black bra was indeed plainly visible through the almost sheer, soaking wet material. My painfully erect nipples protruded boldly through the fabric.

“Never mind.” I said through gritted teeth, reversing the car back onto the road.

“You are now entering the zebra paddock. These fascinating creatures are herd animals. ” Intoned the presenter.

There was not a zebra in sight.

“Look at the Zebra’s Lily, aren’t they nice?” said Jasper.

Lily peered out into the damp gloominess of the deserted paddock, and slumped back into her chair with a bored sigh.

“This is fun isn’t it Lily?” asked Jasper in a nauseatingly enthusiastic tone of voice, which was, I presumed, intended to be an impersonation of me.

“Shut Up.” I sighed.

We continued winding our way through empty stretches of grass land, until we reached Monkey Jungle. I felt dizzy with excitement as we pulled up in front of the huge double gates.

“Thank God it’s raining. Hopefully the little fuckers will all be up a tree.” Said Jasper

“Fuckers. FUCKERS!” said Lily.

“Well done Jasper.” I said tartly.

Jasper turned in his seat and looked at Lily. “No darling, you mu –“

“Fuckers.” Said Lily happily.

We edged towards the gates, which were festooned with the detritus of the Monkey’s previous acts of vandalism. A plethora of hub caps, windscreen wipers, roof racks, pieces of car bonnet, number plates; they were all up there. The Simian Equivalent of heads on sticks at the gateway to a kingdom, and a sobering testimony to their rampant appetite for destruction.

Much to Jasper’s dismay, the little fuckers were not sheltering up a tree. Clearly unperturbed by the torrential down pour, they were mooching about quite happily. A gang of juveniles watched our progress with bored expressions.

I had lifted Lily out of her car seat and put her on Jasper’s lap so she could observe them closely.

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open with astonishment, as a mother with a baby hanging upside down from her stomach, strolled out and sat in front of the car.

“Quick, get the bananas!” I hissed excitedly.

“Wassat?” Lily asked in an awed voice.

“It’s a monkey darling!” I told her,

“Monkey!” she whispered.

The Mother strolled towards the car and momentarily disappeared from View.

Lily’s crestfallen expression turned to horror as she suddenly reappeared on the bonnet and peered through the windscreen at us, her wizened little face alight with curiousity.

Lily gave a shout of fright. “Go away!” she screamed, head butting Jasper in her desperate attempt to turn round and scrabble between the seats into the back.

The monkey looked on impassively and scratched absently at its stomach.

Having managed to calm Lily down, and reassure her that the monkeys weren’t dangerous, she grudgingly consented to sit on my knee, although I noticed that she clutched her Barbie doll so tightly that her knuckles shone white through the skin.

After a few minutes, she relaxed, and having ascertained that there weren’t any rangers in the immediate vicinity, I wound down my window and opened the first bag of bananas. The Monkey’s eyes lit up as it spotted it’s favourite grub. It gave a small chirrup of recognition as it edged round to the window, snatched the proffered treat and stuffed it in its mouth whole.

Lily whooped with delight and clapped her hands.

The other monkeys noticed and came scampering over, chattering excitedly. Soon, the car was swarming with monkeys, all pressing their little faces to the window, as they waited impatiently for their bit of banana. It was all going swimmingly until the arrival of an Alpha male. Instantly the rest of the monkeys scattered to make way for him, as he hopped up and glared menacingly in at us.

He snatched his banana and ate it on the bonnet of the car, watching us appraisingly. Something pink and shiny appeared in his fur. A few seconds passed before I realised that it was his penis.

“Willy!” Lily shouted. “Willy! Willy! Willy!”

Still chomping, and never taking his eyes off me for a second, the Monkey grabbed hold of his erect member and with an expertise borne of long practise began to pleasure himself with long, measured strokes.

“Well this is nice.” Said Jasper.

“Wassit doing?” Lily asked.

“Spunky Jungle.” I sniggered.

Jasper tittered despite himself. The Monkey carried on, faster now.

“Get it off the car, Lily shouldn’t be watching that.” He said in a serious voice.

I turned the wind screen wipers on. The monkey leant forward, grabbed them, and wrenched them off before resuming his wank.

“Fucking hell! Little bastard!” Jasper exploded. He banged on the windscreen and waved his arms.

“Get off the car you dirty little fucker!” he yelled.

“Please darling, mind your language.”

“Fuck my language. Get that fucker off the car!” he bellowed, puce with rage.

Other cars had stopped to have a look. People were pointing and laughing. People were recording the spectacle on phones and cam corders. I slumped down in my seat, utterly mortified, as the depraved ape pushed himself towards the brink.

Lily peered closer, fascinated.

“Drive off fast and then brake!” barked Jasper.

“How? We’re trapped!” I hissed.

There was no way out. We were effectively surrounded on all sides by spectators.

“It’s going to spunk on the windscreen! Put the washers on!” he spluttered.

I did as he asked. Nothing happened

The monkey was reaching his climax. His long tongue had slipped out and his eyes had glazed over with erotic pleasure.

“He’s wanking over you.” Said Jasper.

“Erm, yes, I can see that.”

He shot me an accusing look.

“It’s not my bloody fault!” I shouted.

“Your nipples are on show.”

“Oh FOR God’s sake!”

Suddenly the monkey made a strange chattering sound and went rigid. I grabbed Lily and covered her eyes, just before it ejaculated liberally all over the windscreen. The people in the other cars were going ballistic. My face was on fire as the wretched animal jumped down and sauntered off.

“Get that stuff off the windscreen.” Jasper ordered.

“How?”

“Put the wipers on.”

“I can’t. It broke them.”

Jasper made an undecipherable noise and covered his face with his hands.

The show was over. Gradually the cars dispersed, and we were made our ignominious way to the exit. We passed two rangers in a jeep, who smirked as we drove past with our semen splattered wind screen.

The whole experience left us feeling slightly dazed, and we decided to drive to Longleat house for a restoring cup of tea in the basement café. I queued up with Lily and Jasper went to sit down. His rage had given way to shock. He looked pale and shaken. I felt strangely violated.

An enormous American woman was trying to squeeze her elephantine proportions into one of the narrow seats. Her husband, a vertically challenged ineffectual man who was sporting a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to grow a beard, was looking on dispassionately at his wife’s cumbersome attempts.

“They make seats so small over here!” she whined, grunting and straining. Finally, she was wedged firmly in. With a sigh of relief, she shook the rain off her sou wester, covering Lily with water.

“Awww, I’m so sorry honey! Aw you are such a cutie pie!”

Lily stared mutinously up at her.

“Silly cow.” She said crossly.

The woman recoiled in shock and put her hand to her chest in dismay.

“I’m terribly sorry. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” I grovelled.

“Fat!” Lily said accusingly, pointing at the womans straining gut.”

“Oh God, I’m really very sorry.” I whimpered.

“Lily. Say sorry. SAY SORRY NOW!”

“FAT!” said Lily stoutly.

I abandoned the pot of tea I had ordered, grabbed Lily’s hand and shuffled towards the exit, the second time that I had left somewhere burning with mortification.

Jasper had already made a furtive escape, and was outside in the cloisters, puffing furiously on a cigarette.

Lily smiled up at us angelically and took hold of our hands.

“Well that was a fun day.” I said with a rueful smile.

“Definitely a day to remember.” He replied, giving me a hug.

“Next time, we’ll go to Peppa Pig World.”

I nodded in agreement and giggled.

He took my hand. “Shall we go home?”

“Yes, let’s go home……”

Dorset farmer's wife Jessie Miller in the buff | The Town Gun

Dorset farmer's wife Jessie Miller in the buff | The Town Gun

Monkey Jungle here we come.

Ever since Lily turned One, I have been longing to take her to Longleat Safari Park to show her all the animals.

Much to my frustration, a devastating outbreak of Monkey Genital Herpes forced the closure of Monkey Jungle to the visiting Public for over two years, preventing our greatly anticipated trip. After all, what is the point of visiting a Safari Park if you can’t get in amongst the Monkeys?

For months, I have been sporadically checking Longleats website for news of the re-opening. I grew increasingly dis-heartened to be repeatedly informed that the hapless residents of Monkey Jungle were still strictly off limits due to their prolonged venereal disease.

I had all but given up, when one day, I was flicking absent mindedly through the Daily Mail, when I came across a picture of an old car swarming with monkeys, beneath the head line “LONGLEAT MONKEY ENCLOSURE OPEN AGAIN AFTER 2 YEARS!”

To say I was excited is an epic understatement. I almost choked on my tea at the sight of them scuttling all over the car, gleefully perpetrating acts of childish vandalism .

Having been bored witless for 24 months, deprived of the entertainment provided by the almost permanent stream of visitors through their enclosure, the head keeper deemed it wise to present them with a dummy car, on which to release their pent up excitement and adrenaline, thus ensuring that the novelty of flagrant vandalism had diminished sufficiently, by the time the first member of the public entered their Kingdom. They were clearly beside themselves with glee. Their funny little faces remained incongruously solemn as they snapped off ariels, ran off with hub caps and wrenched off bumpers and played tug o war with windscreen wipers.

What characters! I couldn’t wait for Lily to see them at close quarters. I excitedly pushed the newspaper in front of her and waited for her reaction.

“Oh dear!” she said in a shocked voice, pointing at a juvenile monkey , who was scampering away from the car wreck clutching a wing mirror in one hand, and bowling a hub cap along in front of him with the other.

She looked up at me uncertainly.

“Funny Monkeys!” I giggled.

She tittered, and peered in fascination at the bunch of gimlet eyed hooligans.

“Monkey Jungle’s open!” I told Jasper excitedly as he came in for breakfast.

“Oh Christ. “ Was his gloomy reply.

I stoically ignored his expression of poe face resignation as he came and peered at the scene of carnage.

“I thought they all had Gonorrhea.”

“They had herpes, but they’re fully recovered now and are open for visitors. We could go tomorrow. You’ve got the afternoon off. ”

He failed to suppress a look of fleeting panic.

“I can’t, I’m straw hauling.” He blurted.

“No you’re not. The Contractor’s coming in. He called this morning.” I said triumphantly.

“Okay, but we’re not driving into Monkey Jungle. Look what the little bastards have done to that Volvo.” He said grimly.

“Bastards.” Said Lily, looking pleased with herself. She clapped her hands delightedly.

“Monkey Bastards!” she hooted.

I pulled a morose face. “No darling. Daddy says Lily can’t see the monkeys.” I told her in a profoundly sad tone.

Instantly, Lily turned around and stared at Jasper with a heart rending expression of bewildered devastation.

“Monkeys!” she whispered pleadingly, her big blue eyes brimming with tears as she gazed up at him beseechingly.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see him scowling furiously at me.

Lily’s little hands reached out to him in supplication.

“Please Daddy! Monkeys!” she gulped.

“I wuv you!” she added shamelessly, and burst into tears.

Instantly, Jasper scooped her into his arms, and I marvelled for the millionth time at her astounding ability to play him like a fiddle.

“There there my little angel, of course you can see the monkeys.” He said soothingly, as she clasped her hands round his neck and snivelled pathetically into his jumper.

I stifled a snort of derision.

Two seconds later, she looked over his shoulder and shot me a conspiratorial smirk.

I gave her the thumbs up.

Monkey Jungle, here we come.

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….