Horrid cat

Sunday June 18, 2006

Today was our day for visitors, as a string of camp staff from one of the bosses right down to one of the general dogsbodies called in to see us in our new quarters. It has been the last day of the freedom of an almost empty holiday camp for most of them before the start of the last children’s activity holiday week, which runs directly into the first week of the season proper, when most of the cabins and holiday caravans are rented and the whole place comes to life all the way through to October.

Staff visiting here follows a peculiar convention. A reason to call is required, whether it’s asking Graham questions about bookings, bar opening times, or borrowing keys, or some other business related matter. News and gossip is exchanged, but they seldom sit down, and refreshments are never expected or offered. The underlying reason today was to see what we’ve made of our new accomodation.

“Just as well they don’t stop for coffee,” I remarked as one of the mid-afternoon visitors departed.

“Why’s that, then?”

“We have no sugar. Haven’t had any for weeks.”

“Are you sure about that? I distinctly remember us buying a pack last Christmas.”

“I used the last of it for the removal men when we moved out of the house.”

“You’d better get some more. Just in case.”

“Right you are. We’ll need some for the removal men when we move into the new house anyway. And for our new neighbours when they come calling.”

Later in the day, after the last of our callers had come and gone, Graham expressed his satisfaction.

“We presented a nice, domestic appearance there,” he said. “You watching a documentary on TV, me washing down a venetian blind, and both of us sipping a nice Californian rosé.”

“Hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “Dolly must’ve helped, too, stretched out on the sofa, doing her mistress of all she surveys act.”

“She’s just making sure they don’t sit down and stay.”

“You could be right. Devious, horrid cat.”

 


 
Horrid cat

 

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