For Mum’s birthday /Mother’s day, my brother had an arranged for them to spend the night in a B&B. (I had no part in this. I’m so poor I wrote her a story. I’m so poor I couldn’t afford wrapping paper and so wrapped that story in a scarf with a neck-tie as the ribbon. It looked quite fetching, and environmentally friendly, so there.) Earlier that day the owner had called. I had assumed there was a problem, but no, he just wanted to know when we’d be arriving, and to let us know the stores closed at 4pm. Usually I’d have thought my brother were lying, except he’s the most annoyingly honest person I know. ‘Well that’s just creepy,’ I told him. My whole family refused to believe me, literally calling it ‘country hospitality’. I tried to remember all the horror movies which began with those sentiments.
By the time we arrived I was willing to concede that maybe I was wrong. The entrance was nice, a white gravel drive lined with poplars, leading to a classic country style home. Noni Hazlehurst circa Better Homes would not have been out of place. (Frankly I was happy to be out of the car. I have driven from St Bernard’s. Reversing was a nightmare. Did you know those things have no rear view mirrors, namely because there’s a massive engine filling it? I wound up performing a twelve point exit sans power steering in front of a bridal party. And although I liked the power, the car was so low to the ground I couldn’t help thinking a park-bench would decapitate me.) ‘That’s not the owner is it?’ my brother cringed as we parked. We’re not ones for forced joviality. ‘Oh yes it is!’ I enthused, smiling to the be-sandalled elder gentleman headed our way. The man ravished us with welcomes – he’d already got to my parents, who were looking stunned. He then proceeded to tell us that the B&B was for guests only and that we (my brother and I) weren’t allowed in. My brother was actually slack-jawed, his freshly bought six-pack twisting in the breeze. We were stunned. This man must have noticed our discontent, since he conceded. Five minutes. We had five minutes to deposit our parents.
By the time we arrived I was willing to concede that maybe I was wrong. The entrance was nice, a white gravel drive lined with poplars, leading to a classic country style home. Noni Hazlehurst circa Better Homes would not have been out of place. (Frankly I was happy to be out of the car. I have driven from St Bernard’s. Reversing was a nightmare. Did you know those things have no rear view mirrors, namely because there’s a massive engine filling it? I wound up performing a twelve point exit sans power steering in front of a bridal party. And although I liked the power, the car was so low to the ground I couldn’t help thinking a park-bench would decapitate me.) ‘That’s not the owner is it?’ my brother cringed as we parked. We’re not ones for forced joviality. ‘Oh yes it is!’ I enthused, smiling to the be-sandalled elder gentleman headed our way. The man ravished us with welcomes – he’d already got to my parents, who were looking stunned. He then proceeded to tell us that the B&B was for guests only and that we (my brother and I) weren’t allowed in. My brother was actually slack-jawed, his freshly bought six-pack twisting in the breeze. We were stunned. This man must have noticed our discontent, since he conceded. Five minutes. We had five minutes to deposit our parents.
(Herein I could describe the cabin my parents stayed in, however since the cabin was more of a demountable, and this, coupled with our five-minute visiting time gave me the vague idea of delivering them to a conjugal visit, which leads down a very murky hallway of my mind which I’d rather not go down thank-you-very-much B&B owner. Let’s just say it was “cute”.)
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