There has been such a kerfuffle in Lower Billing Grange; so much excitement I hardly know where to begin. Suffice to say, it all began when an erupting volcano in Iceland rudely spewed its contents over most of Europe. Why did I allow myself to be talked into a Spring Break in Lanzarote, of all places? Seamus must have been out of his mind when he came up with that idea. One thing is certain, I vow that I will absolutely never EVER go on holiday again.
I expect that my loyal readers will have noticed by now that the regular dispatches from Much Twittering have been silenced of late; you are right to worry, I have been caught up in an International Incident of the very worst and most unpleasant kind, and unable to get to my laptop to file my report. Why oh why did we choose last Thursday, of all days, to set off to Greater Twittering Airport?
We arrived at the check-in desk at 9 o’clock in the afternoon, bright and early for a lunchtime flight, and were still there on Sunday evening. The experience has done little to endear me to the rest of the human race in general and my fellow travellers in particular. You would find it hard to believe just how many pints of beer a seemingly normal, mild-mannered middle-aged would-be holiday-maker is capable of consuming when presented with a complimentary refreshments voucher for the airport convenience bar. And this was between 2 and 5 o’clock in the afternoon, in broad daylight!
The first sign of trouble came late on Thursday morning, when every single electronic display screen in the airside area lit up and displayed the disheartening word ‘cancelled’ in red letters. We were assured by the girl on the Sunny Days Customer Information counter that it was just a temporary glitch, the dust cloud would soon blow over and allow our plane to take off. And so we settled down to wait. By late evening on Saturday, we had spent two nights sleeping on plastic chairs in the airport lounge, consumed a mountain of indigestible sandwiches and Danish pastries, and drunk gallons of tea (and not just tea, unfortunately, in some cases). A complimentary glass or two of Shiraz provided a welcome comfort and distraction; but I have to say that some people were a little over-enthusiastic in their acceptance of the free hospitality.
I wish that Daphne Winteringham had not had the bright idea of leading our group in community singing. It started off good humouredly enough, but after an hour or so of conviviality it started to degenerate into raucousness and, with some of the younger participants, members of the Lower Twittering Rugby Club on some kind of stag tour, singing songs that were definitely not in the classic Vera Lynne repertoire. And did Seamus have to insist on leading them all round the duty-free shop in a conga-line?
Such was the uproar that I feared actual civil unrest and violence, and, summoning up every ounce of resourcefulness I could muster, I had the brilliant idea of calming everyone down by distributing a few of my trusty herbal cigarettes. My loving son, Sebastian, always ensures I have a good supply of them, especially when travelling. Sometimes I help him out by bringing back a supply of the raw ingredients from his specialist suppliers. I know that, strictly speaking, there are now all sorts of rules and regulations about smoking in public places (political correctness gone raving mad, I always say), but these things aren’t real cigarettes – they are just medicinal, so where was the harm?
Did the plain-clothes security stewards have to react quite so officiously? Before you could say ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ they had Seamus in a Half Nelson and dragged him off to a side room where he was summarily strip-searched and interrogated. At least that provided him with some kind of diversion for the next 5 dreary hours which I had to spend alone, in what I can only describe as a cell. I never knew that such places existed right here, in Great Twittering. No window, no refreshments, no facilities. Just a hard chair, a plastic bucket and a bed with no mattress. And all of this when I should have been enjoying myself in a 5-star all-inclusive luxury resort!
When the dust finally settled (so to speak), after a lot of creative thinking and fast talking on the part of Daphne’s husband Reg, who happens to be the local magistrate and a good friend in a crisis, we were finally delivered back to Little Billing Grange in a mini-cab, late on Sunday evening. We were exhausted, dishevelled and ready to collapse into our beds. Imagine our surprise as we trundled our suitcases up the drive: all the windows were thrown open, and appalling music, which I believe is known as thrash metal, was blaring out across the garden. It was so loud it could probably be heard all over the village, and beyond the Billing as far as Nether Twittering. Dozens of people, none of whom I had ever seen before in my life, were spilling out of the French windows and trampling around the garden, with not a thought for my herbaceous borders. All were in some kind of outlandish fancy-dress, and most seemed the worse for drink.
I immediately called the police, who turned up in a panda-car, blue-light flashing and sirens blazing. What the neighbours must have thought I do not know. Especially when the policeman who emerged from the car turned out to be the very same one who had earlier been putting poor Seamus through the third degree back at the airport. As soon as he clapped eyes on him, there in the midst of the noise and chaos, once more surrounded by a crowd of drunken revellers, he whipped out the handcuffs and had him pinioned against the side of the car in a most uncomfortable position.
A day later, and at last a semblance of order has been restored to LBG. It turned out that Sebastian had invited a few friends around to the house for a small gathering, but having been naive and innocent enough to mention the event on Facebook, many more undesirable types also turned up, and, by the time Seamus and I turned up in the taxi, things were getting completely out of control. It is going to take some considerable elbow grease to get the marks out of the drawing-room carpet, and Sebastian’s allowance will have to be docked for several months to compensate for the damage to the Chippendale chairs which some hooligan flung out of the dining room window and onto the south lawn. God alone knows how much of the silver-ware is missing, I have not had the energy to check.
In spite of the cloud of volcanic ash which is, as far as I know, still suspended high above the British Isles, the skies above Much Twittering are blue and clear this afternoon. Seamus and I have dragged the sun-loungers out of the summer-house, and are relaxing on what remains of the lawn. In lieu of a holiday in the Canaries, we have decided to spend the rest of the week here in the rose-garden, and have roped Sebastian in to serve as waiter, chef, chamber-maid and bar-tender. A small price to pay for the havoc he has wreaked with his ruddy toga-party, I would say. And he does mix a mean margarita, I must say. So all is forgiven. So much nicer here than in Lanzarote, anyway. Why travel abroad when all I could ever want is right here in Much T?
In fact that gives me another brilliant idea for expanding my business consultancy here at the Grange: I could offer luxury accommodation and spa treatments to my clients. A kind of package-deal including my special Master Classes in Project Planning and Resource Management with Bed and Breakfast and some beauty therapy thrown in. God knows that most of the business people I have dealt with over the last few years could do with it. Why not let others share our wonderful ambiance, beautiful pastoral views and bracing country air? Sebastian can help me with this new venture; it is high time he got a proper job, and I am sure he could assist with some of the treatments and therapies. He can start by practicing a massage on Daphne; I have often heard him say that he would like to give her one. Naturally it would be better if paying guests came on a weekend when Farmer Skinner is refraining from spreading manure all over the surrounding fields, as there is a certain whiff in the air right now that is nothing to do with Icelandic ash. Think I will go inside now and finish my cocktail on the sofa. Toodle-oo.