Ninety-five per cent of my guests are a delight. They appreciate my rural Cotswolds apartment, enjoy the breakfasts, chocolates, flowers and wine I provide, and treat the place as their home.
Since my sons left home, I have had guests from all over the world. Families, babies, retired couples, therapy dogs, Olympic athletes, Hollywood actors, writers, young couples from London. Many return and have become friends.
What could possibly go wrong? The guests who kept two barking dogs locked in for days. The cat that was smuggled in. The foursome that appeared on a booking for two. The woman who shouted at her crying husband all weekend. The famous playwright who left a trail of broken crockery. The discarded underwear of couples who are married, but not to each other.
Nevertheless, people are surprising. The fashionistas who remained cheerful when evacuated outside for hours in November as a chimney fire filled the whole place with smoke. The American couple who were disappointed to find that the Cotswolds were not flat and that we have neither snakes nor raccoons. They didn’t like walking, so I drove them about. I didn’t mind: they were hilarious company. We really are more alike than we are different.
I am glad to share my part of the world with visitors. Renting out my studio has given me another income and an extra string to my bow. My background is in design, so the endless cleaning and washing is not my first choice of career. But there is no such thing as a free lunch or, in this case, a free breakfast.
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