Setting Fire to Your Guests and Worse

"Oh s**t! Oh I'm so sorry! B****r! Aggghhhh!" I howl down my phone to the bloke who's politely ringing to confirm his B&B booking, as the hunt breaks into a fast gallop down the slippery lane.

We've been standing around for so long that I've managed to fit in a call of nature; a fortifying glug of sloe gin; I've stretched my ancient knees - feet out of the stirrups; I've dropped the reins; and managed to extract the phone from my hunt coat pocket to stop it disturbing the rest of the field with its loud, urgent, and embarrassing ringing.  What a surprise, as nobody ever calls me! And now I've only got the other hand to ride with!

"Err... I'm not even sure I have your booking, I've been away you see, and now I'm about to fall off my horse! Ooops! Eeeek! I'll call you when I get home, bye!"

"Well that's one booking you won't get next week", observes Sean dryly, as I retrieve my stirrups, straighten myself in the saddle,  we slow to a trot, and the action grinds to a halt.

Back home, I discover that the booking was only made this morning, so no wonder I haven't seen it.  I upgrade my guests to the best room (it's already made up), despite the fact that I think it smells a bit funny - slightly sort of pungent sickly sweet.

I wander around the room, sniffing like a bloodhound. My cleaner and friend have both reassured me that there's no problem, but I'm not so sure.

I kneel down and put my nose to the carpet outside the shower where the door leaks, convinced we must have mildew, or dry rot, or wet rot, or the whole lot.  I once had a lodger whose room had smelled so unsavoury for months, that eventually I snuck in when he was out, to find an entire wall covered in mildew! But astonishingly, the bathroom seems to be fine, even though it hasn't been used for weeks.

My guests duly arrive, and we sit down to tea and brownies (69p each from Lidl, freezable, very chocolatey, and they look home-made). It turns out that Rona's father was president of an Arabian state which has been engaged in civil war ever since he died. She now lives in Surbiton.  

Throughout this discussion, my head is whirling:  "Do I or don't I tell them about the funny smell?"

"I'm so sorry, but I think there might be an odd smell in your room, but nobody else agrees with me. If it worries you, I can easily move you to the room you originally booked, if you prefer," I blurt out suddenly.

"No problem", they say.

Visions of a layer of grey and black mushrooms, flourishing in the damp area between electric blanket and sheet, prevents any sleep for me that night, as I remember that it's possible I switched the blanket on to air the bed - literally weeks ago! 

Peter and Rona are late down to breakfast, apologising that they were so comfortable in my lovely bed that they've had a lie-in. Not until I'm serving Wydemeet's signature dish of avocado, smoked salmon, spinach, poached egg and hollandaise, does Peter casually observe:

"Oh by the way, your electric blanket was switched on.  We were worried that it might have set fire to your house. You could feel the heat through the bedclothes; the plastic layer covering the wires of the blanket was almost melted away, and the sheets are singed brown, but it doesn't matter at all. We turned it off and slept very well.  No need to change the sheets."

I finish serving breakfast in a panicked daze, and the minute my guests have departed on their five mile trek to Princetown rush up to inspect the damage,

Yanking back the singed sheets, I find a flaking charred topper with ash gently drifting down onto the blackened melted electric blanket beneath.

I am acutely aware that the internal structure of my entire house is made of wood. 

That evening, emerging from the End of Season Hunt Supper at around 10.15pm, I casually check my phone for messages (even though I never get any).  A voicemail (time of delivery, 8.45pm):  "It's Peter.  We're locked out of your house."

I have never driven home through those tiny lanes more quickly.  What has been going on?

There was a viewing at lunchtime, when my estate agent might have locked the house. My horse-lady might have locked the house.  Christian, who popped by to turn on the lights, might have locked the house...

My mud-splattered wreck of an old truck erupts up the drive, and there they are. Sitting in their Honda Civic in the dark.  They've been there for nearly three hours, and are having a little sleep.

"Things happen," says Peter, as they politely wander upstairs to bed.

Waving them off the next day, I cheerfully remark: "I can't wait to read your review - I've never scored 0/10 before!"

"We've absolutely loved it! We do hope you don't sell Wydemeet and we can come back again," replies Roma.  "And please do come to stay with us if you're ever in the area - we'd love to see you!"