I’ll Always Know What You Did in Cornwall: St Ives

Our third and last day in Cornwall (read about day one and two) was a day of walks along the beach, Cornish themed food, and lots of rain.

Lots.

Of.

Rain.

After two days of sunny, if a bit windy weather, we had a feeling our luck wouldn’t last much longer. So after another indecently decadent breakfast at Tregenna Castle, we armed ourselves with umbrellas and waterproof hoodies, and set off to properly explore St Ives this time. The plan was to follow a long, somewhat wild looking footpath along the railway out of town and eventually descend on the beach at its furthest end, then walk back along the sea front towards St Ives, where we still had a bunch of sights to check off our list.

St Ives

Train path ftw!

It being quite early on Easter morning, we imagined we wouldn’t run into anybody for a while, but we came across countless groups of early hikers, dog walkers and landscape photographers with whom we happily exchanged smiles and morning pleasantries.

St Ives

Hobbit Country

I think V and I have a bit of a walking culture, if not an obsession. It’s been a challenge finding equally exploring enthusiastic traveling partners, as most people we know find it strange that we spend our holidays waking up at the crack of dawn only to walk streets, paths and museum corridors for 12 hours a day, every day of a trip at the end of which we’re usually more tired than we started out. What can I say, we’re weird that way.

Minutes shy of two hours later, our footpath finally descended onto the beach. By this time, the sky had turned an intimidating shade of grey and the wind brought hints of the coming downpour.

St Ives

Rain is in the air!

We walked around for a while, but not before I put on my winter hat and gloves (!!!) and made V add a couple more layers to his already Eskimo style outfit. I’m an absolute cosy-temperature-or-bust freak, so by the time I was done with us we both looked like oversized, waterproof dumplings, dutifully rolling our eyes at the pack of paragliding daredevils and one particular swimmer who looked way too lively for what I imagined was freezing cold water.

St Ives

Shiny happy people floating.

And then, all of a sudden, the rains from hell broke through. There’s little photographic proof of our hours long walk back to town through the storm, as we were way too busy keeping ourselves below freezing temperature, mending our clearly wind-is-our-kryptonite umbrellas and squeezing disheartening volumes of water out of our hair, eyelashes, shoelaces and so called waterproof outfits.

By the time we made it back to civilization, we rushed into the first dry looking coffee place and rested our exhausted drenched selves above a tray of piping hot Cornish pasties and steaming, cinnamon freckled hot chocolates. It was well past lunch time by now, and in spite of the seemingly never ending rain we had to get a move on and check a couple more places off our St Ives themed itinerary.

Barbara Hepworth Museum & Sculpture Garden

Barbara Hepworth Museum & Sculpture Garden

St Ives

Barnoon Cemetery

We concluded the evening sipping wine and stuffing ourselves with mountains of mussels at The Ocean Grill, while outside the window the tide was coming in and rain was slowly fading into a shiver inducing memory. As we were making our way back to the hotel, our multilayered clothes still reminiscent of the recent downpour, we decided we’d be coming back in the summer, to try the sand, and who knows, if we’re feeling particularly daring, the waters too, with bare feet.

As always at the end of a trip, I was feeling nostalgic about having to go back to London and our every day lives of walking up and down tube carriages and rooting ourselves in plasticky office chairs. More than a month after this holiday, I still find myself thinking of cramped houses built in grey, permanently damp looking Cornish lime, of the cave drilled cliffs by the beach where I shrieked every time V stuck his hooded head inside a particularly dark, dangerous looking cavern, of the Cornwall green, the greenest green I’ve seen in this country, one you can almost taste, tangy and raw.

I brought back a bag of white shells I’d picked during our beach walk. Ever the hygiene freak, once I got home I rinsed them in a million waters in our bathroom sink, washing all things Cornwall off them. They fill a jar on one of our living room shelves now, and sometimes I pick it up to dust it, way more often than needed, just to hear them rattle.

St Ives

Tide out.

St Ives

Tide in.

 

I Still Know What You Did in Cornwall: Land’s End, Minack Theatre, St Ives

For our second day in Cornwall (read about our first day of Cornish adventures here) we’d planned to drive out of St Ives and visit some of the surrounding sights. The weather being unexpectedly beautiful, we quickly chomped our way through our diet-friendly-not, full English breakfasts, and left Tregenna Castle towards our first stop of the day, The Geevor Tin Mine and Museum. We’d never toured a mine of any kind before, and V in particular was very much looking forward to it. Truth be told, hopelessly claustrophobic as ever, I was more than a bit reluctant to willingly descend into what I imagined would be a network of tangled, damp, airless tunnels, out of which, best case scenario considered, I would eventually emerge all sweaty and unfashionably covered in soot.

You can imagine I was infinitely relieved upon finding the mine closed, as it apparently always is on Saturdays, despite V stomping his foot in protest. Of course I had to put my understanding, super duper loving face on, and comfort him with promises of touring at least a couple of mines a week from then onwards, the deepest and darkest the better. And we didn’t leave the place before we took advantage of the lovely sunny, green fields around the mine entrance, taking a million Mr & Mrs Smith style photos and climbing atop each and every mossy stone wall in sight.

Geevor Mine

No scary mine photos, but here’s an nonthreatening looking gate instead.

Eventually we got back in the car and set off towards Land’s End, a place of beautiful scenery at the most south-westerly point of mainland Britain, which had been recommended to me by pretty much each and every one of my Cornwall versed friends. We hadn’t read anything about it it beforehand, which rarely ever happens, the two of us being absolutely obsessive itinerary makers and all, so we had no particular expectations. Imagine our surprise as we stepped out of the car to this:

Land's End

Whoah..

I think it’s about time I admitted that I have a thing for this country’s coastal scenery. I first became aware of my dangerous addiction when we stayed in Eastbourne for a long weekend during last year’s AEGON International Ladies’ Tennis Championship, and we spend hours walking up and down the chalky Beachy Head cliffs in between tennis matches. Since then, we’ve been regularly planning coastal holidays, and I always put aside a full day to just walk around and enjoy the views. (If V finds all that walking boring, he’s been smart enough never to have mentioned it.)

Land’s End is absolutely stunning. I was on the verge of a heart attack several times throughout, as V is super duper brave aka insane and was monkeying around way too close to the edge of the precipice, relentlessly posing for a million blood curdling Facebook photos.

Land's End

Yup, that’s me, embarrassing braided hairstyle and all. It was windy as hell, OK?

We walked around the cliffs for an hour or two, very much feeling like we pacing up and down a Lord of the Rings setting, V taking countless photos of me posing next to scary creature looking rock formations, doing cartwheels along the only, tiniest patch of flat grassy land around, and trying the marsh water with the tip of my finger.

Land's End

Swamp = super duper artistic photo op. Always.

All in all, the day had turned out beyond expectations already, and I’d have settled for a drive back to the hotel and a Cornish pasty themed lunch, but V had read about The Minack Theatre being a stone’s throw away, and we couldn’t really pass on the chance to visit a place looking like this:

Minack Theatre

Shakespeare by the sea, anyone?

Minack is Cornish for “rocky place”, and that’s certainly one way to describe this open air theatre built on the rugged edge of what used to be Minack House’s back yard. Work began in 1931 and was planned, supervised and financed by one extraordinary woman, Rowena Cade. The first performance, Shakespeare’s The Tempest, took place in 1932 and was lit by car headlights. It was a success and improvements on the place continued throughout the decades, until Rowena’s death in 1983.

The theatre is very much alive these days, and we’d have absolutely loved to actually see a play there, but there was nothing on that weekend and it was quite windy as well (my hairdo will very much attest to that below), but we definitely won’t miss on that opportunity next time we go to Cornwall.

Minack Theatre

Easy does it…

We came across a million steep stone steps behind the theater’s stage, leading down to a lovely, private looking beach below, so after a somewhat dangerous descent, made even more dangerous by the strong wind, we finally made it to the most stunning slice of beach I’ve seen in this country. There were few people around so we just sat there looking at the waves, sharing a chocolate chip cookie I’d taken from the hotel restaurant in the morning. Note to self: always have a cookie to share after climbing six hundred steps down a deadly cliff.

Minack Theatre

So, I kind of luuuuurved this.

It was late afternoon by the time we left The Minack Theatre, and the plan was to take the car back to the hotel parking lot, then walk to St Ives in search of a yummy looking dinner place. We had our eye on Ocean Grill, a lovely seafood themed place overlooking the harbour, but as enticing as it smelled, it was absolutely packed, so we booked a table for the next evening and had to take our starving bellies elsewhere for the time being. We settled for Caffe Pasta, also extremely busy at that hour, but where we were lucky enough to get a table for two with a great view.

St Ives

Good evening, St Ives.

We both had the lasagna (can’t seem to find a photo right now, but I’ll keep looking and will definitely update this post with mouthwatering proof of our dinner depravity) and a pint of Italian beer each, as they were singing Happy Birthday and exchanging gifts at a table nearby.

It was still sunny and we were considering concluding the evening by playing a bit of tennis on one of the courts at Tregenna Castle, but by the time we finished dinner and I’d dragged V along each and every St Ives art gallery in sight, it was already getting dark, so we settled for a quick badminton session on the hotel’s covered and conveniently lit badminton court instead. I lost by a million points and blame the lasagna.

I’ll definitely follow this up with a day 3 centered sequel, as soon as I’ve recovered from my psycho excitement at only just booking another holiday for early in June, this time in sunny Portugal. Until then, if you fancy checking out some other St Ives related ramblings, have a look at what we did during the first day of our Easter trip.

I Know What You Did in Cornwall: St. Michael’s Mount, Tregenna Castle

Yes, I know this post is seriously overdue, as it’s almost been a month since we got back from our Easter Cornwall trip, but in my world it’s never too late to brag about amazing holidays.

Since our move to London, V and I have always spent Easter with our families in Romania. But this year, we were already planning a May/June trip home for V’s ten years high school reunion (it seems now it’s not going to happen, sigh), so we decided we’d save a little money and just stay in UK for Easter (don’t even get me started on how expensive Easter flights to Romania are!), then tick his reunion and visiting our families all in one go, a month or so later. My mother was, of course, outraged at our spending Easter among strangers, but countless phone debates, threats and promises later, she accepted the unacceptable, and V and I allowed ourselves to finally be giddy with excitement at trying a British Easter for the first time ever.

We decided we’d leave London for what would be our first proper road trip since we got the car, and settled for Cornwall, where neither of us had been before. We booked a three night stay at a hotel in St Ives, and V spent about a week prior to our leaving setting up itineraries, testing his new camera lens an inch away from my face, and ignoring my attention seeking somersaults and twirls.

We set off early in the morning on Good Friday, keen to beat the holiday traffic out of London, and I was so tired that I repeatedly dozed off during the first part of the ride, only to wake up terrified that V would crash us into a tree. For some reason, trees growing on motorways is common thing in my deranged sleepy brain. Fortunately, Red Bull injected  V was in much better shape than me, and we made it to our lunch pit stop safely, where the super duper combination of indecent quantities of junk food and delightfully fizzy hydration brought me back to life.

Our main destination for the day was St. Michael’s Mount, a tidal island (I’d read this on Wikipedia the day before our trip, and believe me, I’d given absolutely no thought to what tidal island actually meant until it was too late. But more on that later.) off Mount’s Bay coast, crowned by a priory and medieval castle.

The weather was absolutely beautiful so the beach was full of people flying kites, building sand castles and playing frisbee, as well as tourists making their way to the island, maps and cameras in tow. The tide was out so we walked to St. Michael’s Mount across a dry, algae strewn sand path.

St Michael's Mount

Hey there, island!

Legend says a giant used to live on the island, and had this nasty habit of making his way to the shore village and eating people’s cows and sheep. Until one night, when a local boy named Jack rowed to the island and dug a really deep pit. Then, when the sun was up, he blew a horn to wake up the giant, who, blinded by the sun light, fell into the pit and was lost. A guide was telling the story as we were walking up the rocky path to the castle, in between stops to admire the beautiful view of the coast, with its white painted, terraced holiday houses the likes of which V and I fantasize of raising kids in one day.

We spent a couple of hours strolling through the castle and its lovely terraces from which you could admire the tropical gardens, and of course, the amazing coast. My favourite was the Map Room (turns out that’s pretty much always my favourite room, whether we’re in the Palazzo Ducale in Venice or in Winston Churchill’s bunker in London), but warrior-at-heart V liked the Garrison best. On our way back, I bought a framed print of the Mount to hang in our new home (No congratulations are in order, we still haven’t found anything yet, but I can’t help nesting.) and almost caved in front of a white ceramic seashell shaped fruit bowl way too expensive for my hey-we’re-saving-for-a-house-here budget.

St. Michael's Mount

Castle invasion

Remember how I had no idea what tidal island really meant? Well…

St. Michael's Mount

I’m not cold. I’m not cold. I’m not.. Okay you guys, who’s carrying me to shore?

By the time we were finally ready to part with St. Michael’s Mount, the tide was in and the sand path we’d taken to the island earlier was under water. Plenty of brave people had started making their way through the freezing, ankle high waves, and I’d have definitely been up for it, but as V and I bickered about it (he’s really a scared, don’t-you-dare-get-my-toes-wet little man) the water reached people’s thighs and that was a bit too much even for super duper adventurous me. So we took the boat back (Yay! Boat! I luuuuurve boats!), and after a sunset themed photo session on the beach, we started on our way to St Ives and the hotel we’d be staying at for the weekend.

We’d chosen Tregenna Castle because we’d found a really good weekend stay deal on Groupon, but also because we really really liked the look of it. (Never stayed anywhere castle-ish before so yeah, ok!)

Tregenna Castle

What? Castle-ish is a most definitely a word!

Our stay included a three course dinner on the night of arrival, and since we’d spent so much time bickering about the St. Michael’s Mount tide adventure, we decided there wasn’t enough time to visit anything else before said dinner, and we just went for a walk around the hotel instead. Oh, was it worth it! The Tregenna Castle grounds include a humongous, beautiful Mediterranean garden, golf and tennis courts and absolutely outstanding views of St Ives. So we just walked around until it got too dark for photos and our food centered fantasies became too vivid to ignore.

St Ives

Wouldn’t mind living here.

We actually dressed up for dinner, which we rarely do, savage as we are. So I wore a dress (very grownup-ladylike, I know!), heels and a touch of red lipstick, and go figure, the waiter didn’t ask to see my driving license before pouring the wine, which always comes as a nice surprise. I’m not a good culinary chronicler,  so I’ll let this risotto closeup speak for itself.

Risotto

Nom nom nom!

Yum, right?

So that pretty much sums up our Good Friday. Now, this post has already turned out longer than I’d planned, so I’ll leave the rest of our Easter adventures for part two and three of this Cornwall themed chronicle. Everybody loves a trilogy, am I right?

Until then though, I hope you’ve all got amazing plans for the coming weekend, and if you’re planning a trip or have just returned from one, do tell, I’m a sucker for other people’s traveling adventures!

Weekend Away

V. and I book a weekend away for our anniversary every year. Nothing too crazy, usually just a nice hotel not far from London, where we can spend some time away from our laptops, seeing the sights and enjoying fancy food we normally don’t get to try, boiled eggs and toast being the only culinary delights I pretend to be an expert at.

And though we try to leave the country for more exotic destinations for our longer summer and winter holidays, it’s always these short, always rainy anniversary weekend trips we seem to look forward to the most.

A couple of years back we went to Bournemouth, and stayed at a fancy hotel by the beach where we were pretty much the only guests, it being February and absolutely freezing. All over the resort, Chinese New Year decorations were still hanging from treetops and lamp posts, swaying above the deserted streets. We walked the beaches, took silly photos of each other on the pier, gawked in disbelief at the packs of surfers hitting the winter waves, and stuffed ourselves on three course seafood extravaganzas. Then last year, V. went behind my back and booked the honeymoon suite at Brighton’s Pelirocco, a tiny hotel famous for its (sexy) themed rooms. Ours had a round bed, mirrors on the ceiling, a jacuzzi, a !!! Stripping ! Pole ! In ! The ! Middle ! Of ! The ! Bedroom !!!, and really nice staff who’d surely witnessed lots of super duper interesting things throughout the years. Fun and games.

This year, clearly older and less adventurous than in our mirrors on the ceiling days, we settled for a more moderately exciting anniversary location, and picked the Donnington Hotel & Spa in Newbury. The plan was to walk around the countryside, maybe visit some of the National Trust houses in the area, and eat like savages.

On our way there on Friday, we stopped by Basildon Park & House, a National Trust property we’d read about online. It was sunny for once, though still freezing cold by my Romanian standards, so we walked around the parkland, me screeching with excitement every time we came across a patch of snowdrops or a suspiciously friendly pheasant. The Basildon Mansion is a beautifully restored 18th century home open to the public, so we strolled through the rooms for a while, admiring the intricate arhitecture and the furniture and art collection. The Downton Abbey 2013 Christmas Special was filmed here, and there’s a behind the scene exhibition including filming trivia, set photos, and some of the actresses’ dresses. I know very little about the series, but it didn’t stop me from enjoying the tour, taking hundreds of badly lighted photos in the process. The main Downton Abbey filming location, Highclere Castle, is not far from here and it looks stunning in online photos, but it only opens for visitors in April, so we didn’t go.

On our way out of Basildon, I stopped by their gardener’s shed, where they had a 1£ second hand paperback sale. As expected, I couldn’t help myself and got a copy of A. S. Byatt’s Possession, so V. spent the rest of our drive to the hotel mumbling about how my forever increasing and highly unstable by now book mountain will surely be the end of us. Death by paperback avalanche!

The Donnington is a lovely hotel surrounded by green fields on the outskirts of Newbury. It’s got a golf course and an apparently constantly overbooked spa-gym-pool health center. We’d taken advantage of a Groupon offer and booked an executive room with dinner on the first night and a bottle of wine on departure. The room was pretty much the size of our London flat, which is always a nice surprise, and was facing an endless grassy field. I was cold, of course, and as much as we both tried we couldn’t shut one of the windows, so V. went to reception to mention it. Minutes later, a not particularly muscular looking gentleman came and shut the window for us in half a second, much to V.’s surprise and my very vocal amusement.

We strolled around the hotel grounds for a while before dinner. It was slowly getting dark, a bunch of wild rabbits were running around the golf course and everything was so peaceful it felt like it wasn’t really happening to us. After dinner, an exquisite three-courses-and-the-best-wine-I’ve-ever-had affair, we hit the gym just before closing. I wasn’t in a particularly gym friendly mood, but I guess V. felt like he needed to redeem himself after the I’m-so-masculine-I-can’t-shut-a-window episode, so he spent close to an hour attempting to intimidate me into lifting some dubious looking weights. Why I have to suffer whenever his masculinity is threatened by a middle aged skinny man I’ll never know.

On Saturday we headed for The Vyne, another mansion belonging to the National Trust. The weather was splendid and the place was packed with rubber welly wearing visitors strolling around the gardens and into the forest, picnicking and feeding the swans. We walked and walked, then visited the mansion, another beautifully preserved Victorian home with no Downton Abbey references this time. We spent a fair amount of time in their second hand bookshop, where I got Istanbul ( Orhan Pamuk ) and Saturday ( Ian McEwan ), and V., surprise surprise!!!, got 6 ( SIX!!! ) books. I am delighted to admit, humanity, that my book madness seems to have rubbed onto my until not long ago very reluctant book reading/collecting partner. I consider my mission on this planet complete and am expecting my super duper reward any day now. And to celebrate this miraculous development, the moment we got back to London on Sunday I donated a tiny shelf exclusively to his growing collection: a total of 9 ( Nine, can you believe it? That’s almost like, well, ten! ) books including a muscle encyclopedia, a Driving for Idiots guide, and other super duper manly stuff.

We spent the rest of the day in Newbury, walking around the market, taking photos and shopping (I bought a pair of shoes, oh happy day!, while V. got enough chocolate to last us at least a couple of years from now). We had dinner in a lovely pub by the river, the waters so high after the recent floods they almost reached the window sill, and ended the evening with The Lego Movie at the local cinema. It was V.’s movie choice and I wasn’t too crazy about the idea, but he’d been so well behaved getting all those books for himself earlier, not to mention that I was still high on shoe shopping euphoria, that I couldn’t say no. On retrospect, I probably should have given it more thought, as now he’s driving me crazy singing the everything is awesome song all day long, and every time I tell him to shut it he changes the lines to everything is awesome EXCEPT YOU! We’ll see how awesome everything is when I mistakenly put half a dozen of my red socks into the washer with his precious whites. Just saying.

We got back to London on Sunday afternoon, just in time for the weather to turn grey again (just for the day, thank God, today is splendidly sunny again), and celebrated our return by ordering more pizza than I care to remember (we’ve got enough leftovers to feed a small family for the rest of the week) and watching a couple of South Park episodes. I’m back to work now and to what looks like spring. We’ve got badminton and tech conferences in the coming evenings but my zombie laptop has been fixed for the millionth time and will be arriving today, so hopefully I’ll be able to post here a bit more often.

Until then, wishing you lots of sun and super duper awesome things!

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October This and That: Dead Foxes, Go Home Vans and My Life is A Cheap Motel

October’s been a blast, you know. It’s been cold and wet and we’ve had lots of people over from Romania (not all at the same time, thank God!). So we did all the London touristy stuff for the umpteenth time, which is usually fun and games in regular autumn rain, but less so in end-of-the-world-several-hours-long downpours. Half a dozen colds later, V. and I are sort of getting back to our normal, averagely depressed selves, and looking forward to what I’m sure will be a sunny magical November.

But since this past month has been so busy for me, I haven’t had time to write as often as I would have liked. So I’m compiling some October related nuggets I’ve failed to develop into proper blog posts. This might turn into a monthly thing, or not. Having to stick to plans, especially ones I’ve made myself, has rarely worked for me.

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I know I’ve written about our neighborhood before, but I’ve yet to mention the most amazingly awesome thing about it.

It’s got foxes.

Now, I’ll start by admitting I’ve never gotten close and personal with foxes before. Back home, you don’t run into them in your back yard. You don’t run into anything really, no foxes, no squirrels, no raccoons, nothing. There’s a lot of stray dogs but they’re not particularly friendly, and almost succeeded in turning me into a non-dog-person. I think I left Romania just in time for the transformation to still be reversible. But I digress.

We used to be so proud of our little family of foxes. We’d go down to the parking lot after midnight, just to see them sneaking around, I’d take out my phone and snap photos, some of which would invariably end up of Facebook, accompanied by smiley faces and little heart emoticons. What, did you think I was only moderately lame? Nope.

Anyway. The foxes are gone. I haven’t seen one in months and trust me, I’ve been looking. V’s sure they’re coming back, but I think he’s only saying it so that I stop moaning about it. I think they’re really gone. Vanished. They probably saw one of the the Go Home Vans and changed their minds about hanging out with humans altogether.

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OK. I haven’t actually seen any of these Go Home Vans myself. They’re part of a new UK Home Office campaign aimed at illegal immigrants, which involves Home Office vans emblazoned with the slogan “In the UK illegally? Go home or face arrest” being driven around London. It’s been considered too blunt, racist and a waste of time and money, and has generated quite an amount of, oh, let’s call them debates, all over the media, British and world wide. In the end the campaign got binned, but a lot of my Romanian friends, especially those still based back home, have been bombarding me with sympathetic messages, expressing their outrage at the public persecution I’m facing here. And then even more loudly expressing their outrage at the fact that I felt little outrage myself.

But I’m not an illegal immigrant, I somewhat tried to justify my attitude; therefore ignoring the obvious flaws of the campaign, I’d rather just go on with my life than spend 20 hours a day moaning about it on Facebook. Apparently, I am extremely and hopelessly naive (to be read plain dumb).

It’s just, I’m dealing with plenty of offensive attitudes in various shapes and colors on a daily basis. It’s not something I’d expected when I moved to London (Go figure, I thought I’d be respected! Unrealistic much?), and it’s not something I take lightly. But I need my life to be made of more than that. At times I need to think about my mental sanity, and this is the best way I know how.

As for this Go Home Vans thing…

It would have been an unfortunate choice of action.

It’s not happening.

I’ll stop ranting about it on Facebook now, is that OK with all of you violently indignant people?

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I began this post by bragging about my many Romanian friends willing to visit me in London, and perhaps for a second there you actually considered there might still be hope in the world for crazy antisocial little me. The fact that I often choose to hang out with the neighborhood fox pack over human contact, has probably burst that bubble though.

Regardless of all that, there are indeed several living and breathing people dropping by our place whenever Wizz Air flight prices go on sale. They’re nice enough guys and gals and I’m always happy to see them and accommodate them in our very posh, one bedroom flat the likes of which they’ve never seen before, but sometimes I wish we were more like cheap motel owners. Showing them to their room, giving them the keys and going back to reception and an EastEnders episode rerun. Because all these guests can really get on your nerves, I tell you.

Allow me to exemplify.

ME: So, London, huh? Have you thought about what you’d like to see?

GUEST: Nope. I figured you’d easily come up with a two weeks itinerary for me. But pick really super duper Facebook-photo-opportunity places, OK?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love to help. I have, after all, seen all these places a million times before. But you know, you paid for this trip, it’s your time off, are you POSITIVE you don’t want to have ANY input in the itinerary whatsoever? Because if you don’t, we’ll end up like this:

GUEST: Hey, you picked all these places I need to BUY TICKETS for! Why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t all free? And what’s this? A room full of mummies/paintings/stuff? I’ve seen a million of those, what’s wrong with you!

I’ll be badly fighting the urge to strangle you at this point.

Oh, and if you’re hungry, tired, cold, upset, or in a mood I should run and take cover from, why not just let me know? I’m the image of caring and understanding, especially when it saves us both from mental and physical breakdown.

ME: Are you hungry?

GUEST: Noooooo, let’s go see places, let’s go let’s go let’s go!!!

ME, 10 minutes later: Are you sure you’re not hungry? We can stop for a bite, everything’s still going to be there after we’ve stuffed ourselves.

GUEST: Now way no way, I can’t remember ever being hungry in the last 20 years. I feed on culture!

GUEST, another 10 minutes later: I think I’m going to faint.

You’re my friend, therefore I’ll probably not hurt you. Too badly. But I’ll be a monster. I’ll wake you up every morning at 7 AM as I’m getting ready for work, slamming doors and singing Lady Gaga songs in the shower. Marmite sandwiches will be the only thing on the breakfast menu. And when you give me the Oh, it’s raining. Again. along with one of your It’s your fault looks, I’ll forget to mention I’ve got an umbrella in my purse we can share.

Other than that, all is fine and dandy. November will be bringing along a final pair of guests before the winter holidays, and countless amazing new adventures I’m sure will fry an acceptable amount of my brain cells and will very much improve my will to live. Bring it on!