My wife has often been wrong. On countless occasions. Sometimes spectacularly wrong.
There was that time when…
And then there was…
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.
“More than that,” she said 20 minutes later.
“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