We stayed in a B&B in Rickmansworth on Friday night, run by a frosty woman called Mrs Childerhouse, appropriately enough. I like to think that we're quite personable and easy to get along with - even when we have the kids with us. On this occasion it was just our charming selves, which really doesn't leave a lot to complain about if you ask me. But Mrs Childerhouse greeted us with an icy expression as we approached her front door. I held out my hand, saying cheerily "Hello, I'm Martin, this is my wife Rachael, and you must be..."
"Mrs Childerhouse," said Mrs Childerhouse in a disapproving monotone, shaking my hand firmly and coldly. We walked in - mistake number two: "Would you mind awfully wiping your feet please?" she asked. I wiped my perfectly clean feet and stepped onto her rather threadbare hall carpet.
By the time we'd reached the top of the stairs she'd already asked us twice not to wake her when we came back from the wedding. By the time we left an hour or so later, she'd asked us again. In our perfectly unexceptional room there was the usual too-soft mattress on a too-small bed, a couple of rough old towels whose last hint of fluffiness was rubbed off years ago, and these three rather folorn plates on the wall, which took me flying back to the seventies with an unpleasant jolt. We were really quite pleased to leave the following morning (and no of course we didn't wake her just for a laugh when we crept in at 2.30...)
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