Bragging Rights

“6 double gin and tonics, 3 large whiskeys, 3 vodkas with coke and a pack of cards please, all with ice and a slice.” “What would 52 soldiers of the Devil want with ice, Olav?” I replied and got a blank look.

“Basil, why don’t you join us for a drink and a game of three card brag?” I responded with a cruel comment “Haven’t you lost enough today already?” Olav had lost his wallet in Swanage earlier that day. It contained cash, credit cards, his ID and more importantly to me the hotel door security code and welcome card. It was beyond me to see him both cheerful and about to gamble when he had no money and lost his identity.

Olav was one of three Norwegian guests staying as part of a group of 12 from around Europe. Corporate guests staying at the Elizabethan manor were no rarity but on this occasion these guys and one girl were the only guests, so I didn’t object but declined to join them.

The group formed an ominous circle outside on the patio by the carp pond, which was now surrounded by sharks of the card playing variety. The new anti-smoking laws weren’t popular with these guys because they were forced outside so as not to be disturbed during their game.

Gambling on licensed premises is prohibited unless a special license is gained. But in the depths of Dorset and with no other residents I would turn a blind eye, as Gunnar and Olav told me that the stakes would be low and as they all worked for the same corporation knew the score.

The plumes of cigarette smoke above the table and orders of more drinks became more and more regular; along with the pleadings from the group for the Innkeeper join them. Despite having seen notes bearing the name of my Queen piled high on the table meaning the stakes had clearly increased dramatically, I took out a bottle of gin, whiskey and vodka, some mixers and took my seat at the table with Sybil’s petty cash tin. I was intent on playing it low and slow so as not to risk the wrath of the trouble and strife in the morning. In fact I could almost feel her anger before losing my first hand with a good pair of Jacks.

Winning hands steeple from three cards with no pairs but the highest card counts, to a pair, a flush where the three cards are the same suit, a run where the cards are different suits, a running flush and the best hand a prial, when all three cards are the same number, Aces being tops.
I was never stupid enough to be more than £100 down at anytime but rarely found myself in front. I was now one of the chain smokers and my bravado increased as my personal bottle of Rioja emptied. The group had agreed that we would deal the last hand at 1am sharp, I just prayed my non-PC decision to play wouldn’t mean the emptying of the PC-tin. The problem was the Ante or opening stake had risen to £10 and the group were now betting in bundles and some were going ‘blind’ too. Not looking at their cards meant a big risk, but those that had peaked were forced to bet double. I saw the wisdom in looking but paid the price a couple of times. The other important thing to remember is this, if you have looked at you cards, you cannot ‘see’ or call a ‘blind man’. So you have to continue or fold your cards.

The sodium floodlights illuminated the courtyard and our game just sufficiently to continue but candles from the restaurant were added to improve visibility and the atmosphere, as we headed towards the curfew. I replenished the spirits from the bar and re-took my seat at a table I was starting to wish I had ignored, with another bottle of Rioja. The cards were not falling for me, and when I thought they were ‘a blind man’ took my money with luck.
As the bewitching hour approached I reckoned my lot was about now about £80 lighter than when I ‘stole’ Sybil’s pot and I had also smoked a months supply of cigarettes.

Despite this I charged the glasses and we prepared for the final hand. There were five players left including me, 3 Norwegians Olav, Gunnar and Magnus and a Catalonian called Marti. It appeared at first glance that most of the players had similar pots to play in the curtain closer.

It was my turn to deal, so nervously I dealt three cards to each player. Griping pains of fear now struck me, as I knew money was little object to these rich men on expense accounts. I had seen the way they bet, sometimes laying down £100 before looking at their cards. Then they might bluff a few hundred more and see off the Innkeeper who showed his face of fear before folding his hand.

True to form the Norwegians all opened the betting with a £20 ‘blind’ bet. Marti followed, but I couldn’t risk have my marital rights suspended by Sybil or indeed my tools dismembered had I lost the contents of the hotel float. So I peeled back my cards one by one, the first card was a two, followed by another. So, I had a low pair, not something I would ‘go to town’ with and bet my lot. Trying not to let my face tell a story I started peeling back the last card, it was another two. That was a great hand, three of a kind, a prial, not something we had seen before that night, nor I had ever been dealt with in my life. While it was the lowest prial, I knew I could bet and bet big.

As the only ‘open’ player at the table my stake was £80, double my opponents. Round after round we continued at this rate before Gunnar raised to £50 blind, I continued, but now at £100 a round.

Suddenly I started to sweat, the realisation had dawned that as the hotel proprietor this was not a hand I should win. I had no license to gamble, these guests would lose more heavily because it was the last hand and worse I dealt it! I was clearly looking uncomfortable when the normally quiet and polite Spaniard asked me if things were getting a bit too hot for me. This was my first opportunity to ask my fellow gamblers to fold. They laughed, and laughed loud at me. They saw my feeble attempt to force the issue as a bluff. Marti immediately raised the stakes to £100 blind and my heart sank as I emptied the last notes form Sybil’s tin to respond. A moment enjoyed by everyone but me.

After removing a wad of cash from the hotel safe, my wallet and the days cashing up folder as I was now determined, scared, and a little panicked because I was expecting to win despite worrying of the consequences. I made one last effort to get the guys to look at their cards by saying I had done my best to warn them they were likely to lose and that they must suffer the losses and not bleat afterwards. This had only minimal effect, the Norwegians and my tormentor Marti looked at their cards. Magnus folded having seen nothing not to smile about. A few more rounds of betting took the stake to £200 a go, before I made my move. Raising my bet to £500 brought silence to those in our den of iniquity. Not because of my bet, but because a member of the local constabulary was standing behind my left shoulder, unseen by me. He had silently watched my raising stake placed in a pile of notes running into thousands.

His opening words were “Is Olav Gunnerson among this group?” Olav stood looking almost as frightened as me. The copper then said “I have your wallet Sir, it was handed into the station an hour ago, so I thought I would drop it off on my way home.” Followed by, “Can I have a word please Mr Hageman?" Being drunk, at first I wondered how he knew my name, but as I sobered up quickly I realised that it is displayed above the front door as all licensees names are.

I left the table and approached the rotund constable. He made it clear to me that I was skating on thin ice by allowing my property to be used for the purpose of illicit gambling. I protested that the game had started with a few coppers per hand and had gotten out of control, pleading that this would be the last hand and it would never happen again. The policemen said he’d contact me in the morning to discuss the situation and as he left told those seated at the table in no doubt that this hand must be the last.

As he disappeared from sight the gambling stopped. My huge raise in the stake and the sight of the local Bobby had deflated the atmosphere and the egos of my opponents. All of them seemed happy to call me and see what my fussing was all about.

It was a close run thing; Olav had a running flush, Gunnar a flush and Marti a pair of kings. The reason they had been betting so much was that each of them had hands that would win most games we had played that night. To get dealt hands like these on the final deal was astonishing. That thought bounced into my mind like a basketball fired from a canon into a squash court. Would they think I had rigged the deck before dealing?

I turned over my cards one by one to the stunned silence. To my relief I was congratulated by all of them and nobody cast a dodgy eye, drew a gun or pointed finger at the jubilant but green coloured innkeeper. I chose to count my winnings after the group had filed off to bed talking in whispers as they went.

I repaid the petty cash tin and Sybil’s takings folder for the day and refilled the safe and my wallet; the amount I stuffed into my trousers was a little over £3500. I separated about £400 from this to give to Sybil to add more to her shoe mountain in the hope that adding to her Imelda Marcos sized collection might get me off the hook for risking everything. She has never had any idea how much I won that night (unless she reads this).

A sleepless night followed for Basil, as I felt sure the losers would round on me, if they didn’t Sybil would, and then there was the policeman to deal with.
Olav and Gunnar came to breakfast first. They shook my hand and said nothing about the game when staff came close enough to hear about the shenanigans of the night before. When I said I was concerned about sore losers getting even, they laughed and said that had the copper not turned up they would have bet much more. Both said they wouldn’t have warned other players about my decent hand and that that was mad but they were the glad ones! Marti confirmed this view when he arrived full of smiles but with an empty wallet.

Sybil seemed full of it and was trawling the Internet for a load of cobblers fare before the group checked-out. That just left the fat constable.

To this day, his flat feet have never come back through the manor house door, but the fear of him doing so has prevented me trying to repeat the feat.

The Sleepwalker (part two)

“There is a man in our bed! Please come and help us!” The phone by my bed had rung at 0400, Sybil was less than amused to be woken again. I had transferred the phones to the cottage because the member of staff who let me down the night before had borne the brunt of the sleepwalker’s antics and Sybil’s mood and had left my employ.

The couple that called me were in room 10. I knew this because their name and room number were displayed on my phone when I answered the distress call. When I reached the room there was a ‘welcome’ committee. The couple in room 10 were outside it talking to the psychiatrist from next door. “He’s in there!” said the woman who had more men in her bed than she wanted, and who was now visibly shaking. “What happened?” was the only sensible question I could muster whilst noticing the psychiatrist eying my Playboy outfit. I wondered whether he knew I was ‘commando’ again for only the second time in my hotel career.

“We were in bed, fast asleep when I felt the urge to move over having been told to do so by a strange voice, half asleep I did just that. It was only when my husband got up for the toilet that he noticed there were two people occupying the space he’d just left. He turned the light on and we found a naked man lying in our bed fast asleep.”

I entered the room to find ‘Steve’ in the centre of someone else’s bed curled up in their duvet snoring peacefully. Now, what to do? The audience was growing outside when I emerged to pacify the former occupants of room 10. I explained the story of the night before, unnecessary because the psychiatrist had already. I woke ‘Steve’s’ partner and together we got him into her bed.

The lady from room 10 who had unwittingly had a Menage et trois but failed to appreciate her luck, admired ‘Steve’s’ derriere on his short walk ‘home’. The crowd dispersed and I got home to Sybil with a proper story that would definitely raise her eye patch of curiosity.

At breakfast the next day I struggled to make it in time for service. Just as I reached the restaurant door I saw ‘Steve’ addressing the room. He was apologising to them all and explained that he hadn’t brought his medication that sometimes helped prevent nocturnal forays into the unknown. He made a special effort to appease the woman whose bed he’d shared and apologised if he had done anything inappropriate and for the shock. Blushing she replied “Having seen you walking back to your room afterwards, I only wish you had been inappropriate, I think we kicked you out too soon and I am so glad now that I forgot to lock the bedroom door last night!” To the roars of laughter from the other guests, the red face of one and to the relief of thine host.

The Sleepwalker (part one)

“Good morning, I am sorry to bother you, but I have locked myself out of my room. Incidentally, perhaps I should also point out that I have no clothes on.”

The phone next to my bed in the cottage across the car park from the hotel should never have rung at all. I was manning the night phones purely because staff had let me down. The switchboard at the hotel was set to ring by my bedside should there be a nighttime emergency. Standing naked in the middle of a hotel reception in the dead of night was no such thing, for me anyway. The guy clasping has credentials without a stitch on clearly thought differently.

It was 0345 and it had taken some ringing to wake me after a very long day during my annus horribilus. I decided that my Hugh Hefner style dressing gown and the slippers would match my hastily thrown on jeans, there was no time for knickers, now that was more like the Playboy founder, I thought.

As I trudged across the frosted gravel car park towards the hotel I made plenty of noise. The idea of having gravel is for exactly this reason; staff and receptionists can hear guests coming. Only this time I was trying to be as quiet as a creeping mouse. But I was sure my naked guest knew I was on my way.

As I keyed in the code at the front door to enter the reception area I could see the shape of my now freezing streaker silhouetted by the night-light. Holding his testicals one minute then offering to shake my hand the next, during our first introduction was too much, too soon. But as not many streakers introduce themselves things were looking up I thought. The real problem now was that he was a guest but had no idea which room he was from. During the time it took me to find the reception desk key on from a bunch a size fit for a jailer I had learnt that the guy was a sleepwalker.

We were now both awake, me trying to locate him in the reservation book and he, talking too loud in profuse apologies. Finally I found his room, booked in the name of his partner, I assumed she would be asleep upstairs as I should have been in the cottage.

I led ‘Steve’ to room 12, on the way thinking how weird it was to be followed down a long hotel corridor by a naked man. On reaching his room I knocked at the door. And knocked again a moment later. When I tried the door handle to find the door was locked. The door next to it opened and a surprised looking elderly gentleman laughed at what he saw in the corridor. “What’s going on here then?” He chuckled. I tried to explain but to no avail, but gladly he retreated now laughing. From the jailers bunch of keys I found one for the housekeeping cupboard and obtained the spare key to ‘Steve’s’ room.

Just as I unlocked it I heard his partner call out from within and I was a bit shocked but too tired to care when what I heard wasn’t “Steve.” But when the door opened they seemed to recognise each other so I could relax a bit. ‘Steve’ outstretched a hand of thanks, but given its proximity to his balls for the last twenty minutes I declined again.

I ventured across the gravel again, this time, with a crunch too many for the guests in room 2. They turned on their bedroom light and peered out at the innkeeper in disguise, retreating home to Sybil. She didn’t say much, except to question why the telephone system rung us and not the live-in staff, whose duties would include this sort of event. But we had no reliable English speakers in the staff accommodation that night and it seemed the sensible thing to do, after all the fire alarms had to be manned, I told her confidently. Sybil didn’t remove her eye mask to interrogate me further about my nocturnal jaunt. She employs this to shut out any light and enable her to slumber. I might have copped a lot less of an eyeful of ‘Steve’s tackle, when he removed his hand to shake mine if I had borrowed it I thought before slipping under the duvet to warm my frozen toes on her legs.

At breakfast there was no sign of the couple staying in room 12 in the dining room. I did see the old buffer in room 11 again, though, he teased me about what Basil and the guests get up to in the dark of the night, a little louder than I would have wanted, right in the middle of the restaurant. I tried a little harder than I had the previous night to explain what had happened but I didn’t want to make ‘Steve’s’ entrance at breakfast any harder, so the information I gave was a little sketchy, then again that was all I had. I figured it unlikely that the old fella was a psychiatrist, but like the one in Torquay, this would be book worthy.

By now the receptionist had found the sleepwalkers room key. It was in the Oak Room waste bin. ‘Steve’ had apparently left the room ‘asleep’ locked the door and wandered around the ground floor until waking up confused. He then woke the confused Basil. I could not understand the night before how he had locked himself out, as he needed the key to lock the door?

When ‘Steve’ and his partner came down long after breakfast had finished, too embarrassed to have a Purbeck Grill, I heard their story and the history of the sleepwalker. I advised them to lock the bedroom door from the inside and take out the key so the he couldn’t get out for a nocturnal wander. They had another night to stay in the Elizabethan manor.

The day passed without great event, except the verbal jibes from the ‘psychiatrist’ it was a peaceful day. The hotel and I had a decent evening, 34 diners ate the fare produced by the men in white coats and had received some great punter reviews. These reviews are rarely passed on to the madmen of the snake pit because that would fuel their egos, generally I translate a customers “fabulous” into Basil’s “barely adequate.” I did my rounds of the Oak Room and restaurant before heading home across the gravel for some essential sleep after a busy day.

To be continued.....

The big Tipper and his Spare Pillow

Room 5 is a bedroom in the original part of the building which dates back to 1590. It is not the biggest, but is finished with a beautiful antique Duchess dressing table and an old solid walnut headboard.

Discretion in this trade is a given, although it’s often a chore when you have to go beyond the call of duty to hide the shenanigans of some guests. Day-lets are commonplace at most hotels that allow them, this is when the room is required ‘during the working day’, let’s say 11am until 3pm at which time the ‘couple’ check out having paid cash and back to the monotony of a less secret lives. When such clandestine goings on are afoot it is often easy to trace the culprits by reading the name on the empty box of ‘stay pecker hard pills’ in the waist bin next to condom wrappers. Cialis and Viagra induced playtime doesn’t come cheap but these folk need to maximise every minute together.

A regular guest before we took over and one who always frequented Room 5, visited with a different ‘wife’ each time. He always requested, during the booking process that we exercise the greatest discretion. He invariably asked for me before he booked, so that he’d be sure to get the message across: it would be awful if you said something like “Good to see you again, sir!” or “Goodness me, madam, you look younger every time I see you!” when you greeted them on arrival.

His lady friends always came in a few minutes after he did and seemed to know the direction to his room. I often wondered at first whether they knew him but I would later discover that they were paid help, or ‘spare pillows’ as they are known in London – ladies of the night who take up the space in a double bed for reward.
It is very hard when things are busy to be sure you convey the situation to all staff and hope to God that no one f**ks up. Regular guests like him whose tips are rolls of cash, are good for all the staff, I thought at first, but not for long.

It seemed as if we had played his game a dozen times before, but I was not expecting the frantic call from said gentleman. This time he was asking for my personal help, with the utmost urgency. He explained that his wife was about to enter the hotel through the front door and insisting she “Be stalled there” for as long as it took to get his ‘partner’ (the hurriedly dressed hooker) out of the room unnoticed.

I thought as quickly as I could before recommending the use of a fire escape close to his room. I ran upstairs and escorted the paid help down the fire escape stairs. This was made more difficult because she hadn’t finished becoming ‘decent’ but Basil had no time to gawp at her size H boobs. I reached the relative safety of the ground floor at just the time his wife was being brought up the ornate main staircase (as slowly as possible) by the duty receptionist.

It worked like clockwork as the receptionist pointed out objects of interest en route. The only person that seemed to suffer was me, heart racing, beads of sweat on my brow, but it would be worth it for the inevitably large tip that he’d leave to be shared by all the staff. I helped the now sultry sex worker out to the A351 amidst protests about the way she had been handled and the fact that she remained unpaid.

"Not my worry love!" I said somewhat unsympathetically.

“Sorry if I manhandled you but it was impossible to keep all your bits covered and get you out in a hurry!” All I had to do know was explain to Sybil how I now had a cheap aroma of au de prostitute on me.

At check-out the next morning, the bill was paid, and not much was said, none of the usual pleasantries. As it appeared his wife wasn’t able to pin anything on him, all was well. Unusually on this occasion he decided not to pay by cash or leave a tip. He either didn’t think the years he’d taken off me were worthy of a gratuitous tip, or wasn’t usually generous when he was with his wife.

I was not impressed, but as he left to pack the car, Barb came down with a lipstick that had been left in his room (but not the colour his wife was wearing); so I took it from my housekeeper and rushed out to the car, fuming to myself at the lack of reward for all my efforts and having decided, finally, to end the ‘love affairs’ the customer had here regularly. I thought of saying “The young lady who left yesterday afternoon left this in the room” but instead bottled it up and I settled for “Would you like a hand loading the car? And please come again!”

I did manage to discreetly palm him the lipstick when shaking hands along with a knowing glare and a comment that he never came back. This was not a disappointment, as I have not had to play his game again since. Hidden behind my obsequious smile, there often lie guests’ secrets, secrets that people give willingly without a second thought about how well I can be entrusted with them.

Ok if you don’t misbehave or find Basil having a bad one.

"Basil, je nai pas de chef pour les petits-dejeuners!"

I took this to mean we were in the s**t becuase I don't like being woken so early by the 'emergency' phone that sits next to my bed.

Not long after taking the reins of the manor house and after a busy festive season, I took Sybil away with Sybling and Ted for a break. For me is was just to get the sound of "sleigh bells ringing" from playing in my head as it had throughout the season to be jolly. Our kinder collective of 5 daughters would miss the start of the school term about as much as we would miss the manor house.

On our return the new squire was lying in bed, contemplating, as so many do, that, after a jolly good holiday, what one needs is a jolly good holiday to get over it.....when the phone rang next to me, it was one of our French chef de rang.

A French chef, our number two in the kitchen, was AWOL and hadn’t turned up for the breakfast shift, ominously he was nicknamed ‘Oily’ as he was always well lubricated. We had thirty guests who would soon be down clamouring for food - and no chef.

At times like these one has to admire the continental Europeans. Give them a demi-tasse of coffee and croissant filled with chocolate and they might go quietly. But Brits are made of sterner stuff and demand their ration of pig and hen fruit in order to get the day off to a good start.

In a trice I was at my post in the kitchen, demonstrating my qualities of leadership, and had the nosh on the go in no time. The pork and leek sausages were just coming into their prime when in walks Oily.

Only he didn’t walk in, he reeled in, fending himself off one of the refrigerators en route. He seemed surprised to find me at the helm of what he regarded as his ship and more than little bit miffed about it. He appeared to have been celebrating something a little too well and certainly very unwisely as his eyes were as red as the grilling tomatoes, and I was fearful that his breath might get near a naked flame.

We wrestled over a spatula as he tried to take over the sausage cooking and, as diplomatically as I could, I suggested that he should go home to lie down to sleep it off. This seemed to have struck some Gallic nerve. Did I think he was incapable? Yes, he was late but he was here now, wasn’t he? De Gaulle must have felt the same way when they forgot to tell him about D-Day.

As he staggered and swayed, he mistook the stress that showed on my face as the orders started to flow in to mean he was at fault in some way, or indeed in trouble. Now the kitchen is not the place for any confrontation, the only things that should be in there are clean, hot and surgically sharp, unlike the wit of my drunken chef, who, in this state had none of these attributes. I later learned that he cooked best when like this; I just hadn’t seen it before now or he would have worked his last shift for us long ago. I asked him to leave the kitchen, but when he refused I ‘led’ him from the kitchen with his arms behind his back. He threatened to kill me with a plastic spatula, not now maybe, given where his arms were, but some time in the future when I was not looking. Welcome back, boss.

So for the next few mornings I was on duty until we could find a replacement. My kitchen shifts started to become easier and service was as well oiled as the departed chef.....

That was seven years ago. But I was reminded of Oily when I advertised in a French restaurant magazine for a chef last week...I got an email with a CV from the same, one Oily chef....had he forgotten, was he drunk or did he now have balls of steel as he now wanted to be head chef!

Children for Dinner

“Check on!” I shouted to the chief in his white coat as I handed over the order slip. “And that needs ketchup and mayonnaise as side orders.”
“You got kids for dinner Basil?” “How do you want them cooked, fried or boiled?” came his reply. Actually I usually eat the children once they’ve braised for hours, but I am also given to making pie from them now too.

Having children for dinner can be a test of the best wills in the world, but it can be made easier if mein host and the staff try a lot. For example, by engaging the rug rats right away is a starter. I hand them menus, introduce myself and normally ask a silly question, once ‘on-board’ the rest can be plain sailing but only rarely is. We always sit ankle biters with a view in to the restaurant so they can see what’s going on. We never give them crayons to graffiti the Egyptian cotton tablecloths; they can do their colouring in the bar or in the pub down the road.

When you take the order it is advisable to ask the parents how they want the meal experience managed. Kids main courses can come with the adult’s starters and we often serve their pudding with mum and dads main course. Oh, the best laid plans of the meek and the feeble!

At times we need to employ the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang as the behaviour of the modern day sprog from hell is impossible to manage without a net and a lollipop. Often the parents ignore their offspring in the hope that the staff or Basil copes with their antics, despite the chance they may end up in my stew. It is not entirely the fault of the children; mum and dad rarely set the right example.

“Mayonnaise for your boulangère potatoes young lady, and some ketchup for the young mans dauphinoise… “Oh and lest I forget the mint sauce for dads Pomme puree (in this case a grain mustard mash potato).

The next sight is dad jettisoning his knife and swapping his fork to his right hand, I watch as he starts mashing up the food and shovelling it in just like an American.

What chance to the youngsters have at such an example, at times like these you wish that the family had dined in the bar earlier. Then one of the children farts loudly and the whole family laugh. The Major sitting at the next table, suited, booted and wearing his poppy of remembrance is starting to feel as uncomfortable as Basil now is, being deaf he thinks his dinner smells off. I’ll get Polly to appease him.

Children for Dinner…The continental Europeans seem to manage it so why can’t most Brits. Is it the children or the parents that are incapable and intolerable? Or then again is it Basil who is in the stew.

Meet the cast....

Playing Basil and the author of the book Inn Keeping with Mr Fawlty is me, Andy . I am married to Ally herein referred to as Sybil and her sister Bev is Sybling. Ted has much more to offer than Manuel but is equally short.

Together we own and run a sixteenth century manor house hotel in Dorset. This has been lovingly converted in to a 21 bedroom hotel and fine dining restaurant, holding two AA rosettes. The hotel is accessible to all.

The chefs are the 'men in white coats', this because the only thing missing from their uniforms are buckles at the cuffs of their white tunics to tie their hands behind their backs when they flip. Usually one of the main cast go with them.

The restaurant management are currently French but there are a number of budding Manuel's in the team they lead. These folk are often calm and professional looking, highly trained and sometimes motivated, however the duck on the surface of the pond looking cool is often paddling like fury to keep afloat.

The housekeeping staff are headed by our Perfectly Maid..Barbara, or just Barb. She does so much more than keep the building and the rooms presentable and is as much a tourist attraction as any...essential to meet her if you stay. She is three score years and more than ten, but paddles faster than those a third her age....formidable and irreplaceable.

The pressure cooker of an industry cooks a daily broth of fun, frivolity and sometimes fury. The point of the book is to accurately depict the life we lead trying to serve the thousands who come to sample the fare, the area, the building and the cast. The hotel is set in the heart of the Isle of Purbeck surrounded by all that is great about this green and pleasant land. The Jurassic coastline, historic buildings and Castles, not to mention Thomas Hardy and Enid Blyton...endless opportunities await.

Enter the customers, some come with a mindset to enjoy. It maybe the food, the building, the area, or maybe Basil and his supporting team. Then there are those who would happily turn in to finger clicking demons who make our life hell. The highs are like a drug and I need a regular fix, the lows have turned me prematurely grey and hunting for a psychiatrist..."There is enough material there for a book" one once remarked in Fawlty Towers.

Any one of you who has seen Fawlty Towers will be aware of how things went some three decades ago in the fictional hotel in Torquay Devon. Hotel Babylon gave a more modern take...but the real life happenings will unfold here, and hopefully once published will sell in bundles. It is enough to make you money, make you happy but hunt for that padded cell.

I hope you enjoy what will follow now that you know the players.