Foot in the door

We were met by that stale B&B smell that's a reminder of every cooked breakfast ever served on the premises: a smell that's a strange combination of the familiar and the strange - after all, no-one's house smells that way any more, does it?

As Kate dinged the bell for attention, it struck me that there's always some odd detail in these places - as I found my eyes drawn to a watercolour of Guildford High Street. I mean, why? Some family connection? A job lot of framed pictures from a junk shop?

Reassured by find the element of strangeness so quickly, I felt myself relax. At this point, a man who was clearly mine host came through from the kitchen.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said, "did you not see the sign outside? We're full, I'm afraid."

Kate said she did realise, but apologetically asked if he might know of anywhere else that could fit us in.

"Well, we do have an informal arrangement with another guest house about fifteen minutes away from here - but I'm pretty sure they'll be in the same boat as us.

"I think Sue - that's my wife - was speaking to them this afternoon. I'll just give her a shout, see if it's worth ringing them at all."

He turned to shout up the stairs, just as a woman's voice shouted down. "Bill? That couple from Newcastle have just called to say they can't make it. Their son's got chickenpox or measles or something, so they have to stay with him. You'd better put the sign out, let people know we've got a room free."

The man we now knew as Bill turned to us with a surprised grin, saying, "well, looks like you're in luck. Anyway, it'll save me the bother of changing the sign."



Story begins here.