Welcome to the B&B

My wife has often been wrong. On countless occasions. Sometimes spectacularly wrong.

There was that time when…

And then there was…

And…

Yes, well. None of them exactly spring to mind just now. But I know I’m right.

And never, ever, was she more wrong than a week before Christmas.

Wide of the mark? Cow’s bottom, mate. Banjo. Couldn’t hit.

“We need some more eggs,” she said.

“For Goodness’ sake. There are two trays of eggs. That’s 72 eggs.”

“I bought another dozen,” she said.

“So we’ve 84 eggs in the house. That’ll last us until Easter.”

She patiently explained that Alex and Lizzie had eggs for breakfast every morning. That the Beloved Daughter and Could-be-Serious would do the same when they arrived. That baking needed a lot of eggs. That Yorkshire puddings for eight people demanded a seemingly infinite number of eggs…

“You’re still wrong,” I said. “There’s no way we’ll need that many eggs. What do you think we’re doing? Running a B&B?”

As it turned out…

Cue the music. Something gentle: pastoral. Maybe a brass band playing the Hovis theme?

It’s the soundtrack to one of my fantasies. A B&B in the Yorkshire Dales. Three rooms – six people at the most. Just enough to keep the cash flow flowing.

And there I am! I’ve cooked them a full English – ‘Proper champion. Best bacon and eggs I’ve ever had’ – they’ve paid their bills and left with a smile. And now look! I’m striding along the Pennine Way in the spring sunshine. A ten mile loop before I’m back to do the evening meal for the next set of six…

You know what?

I don’t have that fantasy any more…

They were all here over Christmas. Tested, masked, kept socially distant from Grandma. But here. Our three children, all with a plus one. Plus ones which ranged from buying-a-house-next-year to taking-it-slowly-to-begin-with. But – at various stages over Christmas – all here.

And for two days, the B&B was full.

Three rooms, six people.

Hell’s bells, where did I start?

Having a shower ridiculously early in the morning, that’s where.

And then the staff went to work. Cooking, cleaning, taxi to and from the railway station…

As they’d say in t’Dales, ‘It were never ending tha’ knows.’

Thank the Lord we had some help. Three key members of staff. On duty 24/7. Never complaining and always ready to help. Even better, the dishwasher, the washing machine and the tumble dryer didn’t even want paying.

“Could you peel some potatoes for dinner?” my beloved the landlady asked.

“No problem.”

“More than that,” she said 20 minutes later.

“More?”

“Yes. There’s football on TV but I know you don’t want to watch it.”

Fair’s fair. ‘Is there anything I can do to help’ was a much-heard phrase. But it’s your house, your children, your responsibility. Dan’s girlfriend is here for the first time. An’ t’lass is from t’South. ’Appen she needs impressing. Maybe just peel a few more spuds…

But finally we had the house to ourselves. “I’m exhausted,” I said. “But we must have taken a pretty penny. All those guests, all those nights. It must be close to a thousand pounds. Maybe more?”

But you know exactly how much Mum & Dad’s B&B took over Christmas.

Hang on though…

They’ve gone. House to ourselves. That can only mean one thing…

“We’re finally alone,” I murmured seductively, sliding my arm round my beloved as she scrubbed a pie dish. “What about some torrid sex?”

She flicked dirty water over her shoulder and hit me square in the eye.

“Does that mean you’d rather have a cup of tea?”

She didn’t need to answer…

Fabulous! Had me gripped from start to finish. Reminded me of Mark Billingham’s detective, Tom Thorne.”

Salt in the Wounds is now available on Amazon.

The sequel, The River Runs Deep can be pre-ordered now and will be published on January 31st

Glued to the Garlic Grater

How do you get away with murder?

It’s simple.

All you need is a kitchen appliance, a tube of superglue and a stupid victim.

Stupid victim? Look no further…

My wife tried to do me in. Two days before Christmas.

Someone had broken our garlic grater. Is that what you call them? It’s lovely. A small dish, maybe four inches across. Very clearly hand painted. Blue round the rim, fading to yellow and then orange. A hundred jagged edges on the bottom. You whizz a clove of garlic over it and hey presto, you’re in Spain or Mexico. You have grated garlic – and very smelly fingers…

Anyway, the garlic grater had made an unscheduled visit to the floor, and a large shard had broken off.

At which point Lucrezia Borgia saw her chance. A poisoned dish of mushrooms? Why go to all that effort? The poor sap will do it himself.

So she bought a tube of superglue, left it next to the grater and waited…

‘Ah ha!’ I thought, seeing them there. ‘I can glue the garlic grater back together and score a hefty wodge of husband points.’

I didn’t even say anything. Usually I announce that I’m going to do a job. With a considerable fanfare. Ostentatiously write it on my to-do list.

Not this time. I quietly picked up grater and superglue and went to work.

Carefully, gently – a lot can go wrong with superglue – I pierced the top of the tube. Delicately ran a thin line of glue along the edge that shouldn’t have been an edge. Pressed the two pieces back together. Held them. Gave the glue time to do its work.

Walked proudly back into the kitchen.

…And made an announcement.

“I’ve glued myself to the garlic grater.”

“You’re joking aren’t you?” Lucrezia said.

“No,” I said, holding up my finger – and the garlic grater – to show her.

“You’re going to have to get it off,” she said. “You can’t peel the parsnips with that stuck to your finger.

More to the point I can’t type either. Maybe that should be mre to the pint. I’d glued my ‘O’ finger.

“I can’t take you to A&E,” she said, smiling at me. “Not two days before Christmas.”

It was the smile that gave her away. Because – if I couldn’t get rid of my new Siamese twin – I’d have to go to A&E. And what percentage of people have caught you-know-what in hospital?

Now, of course, you see the plan.

Just another stat. Not even name-checked by Smilin’ Matt Hancock…

At this point regular readers whose senses have not been blunted by over-indulgence may be puzzled. Hang on… Notoriously lazy, hates domestic chores, book to finish… And yet he’s found time to fix something. Badly, obviously, but still…

The explanation was simple. A conspiracy theory.

The internet had gone off. The whole town, just like that. Transported back to the 16th Century. Some hocus-pocus about BT and the exchange. Either that or the town crier had forgotten to put a groat in the meter.

So I volunteered to go to the Co-Op. “No problem at all, darling. I know how busy you are.”

Nothing at all to do with the reliable signal in the car park.

It was busy. And full of interesting people. “We’re an experiment, mate,” a fellow madman said as he panic bought iceberg lettuce. “Covid, masks, can’t see your grandma, and now they’ve turned our internet off.”

I said as much to Bill Gates as he came into the shop to inject us all with microchips.

Not that Bill would be interested in someone with a garlic grater glued to his finger…

Loved the book from the first page. Straight into the story, very well-written. The characters have great personalities. Love Brady, Ash, Archie, Dave and Mozart. Can’t wait for the next one…”

Salt in the Wounds is available now on Amazon

The River Runs Deep will be published in January