Dreamaticus

I was fast asleep next to TPR in the main bedroom of our cottage in Perthshire when the noise awoke us at 02:00. Did we see faces at the window, or was the commotion coming from the floor below? We bravely headed downstairs. There we found an entire family busy cooking a fry-up in the kitchen with the full intention of eating bacon and eggs off their laps in the main sitting room.

“Hey!” I screeched. “This is not an episode of Goldilocks. What do you think you doing in our house, eating our food?!”

The mother explained that they had set off from London earlier that day to spend Christmas in the Highlands, but had forgotten to book accommodation. When they had asked in the village about somewhere to stay someone informed them that we hardly ever used our cottage and that it was probably vacant over the festive season. I replied that whoever their informant was, he or she was wrong – and in any case, since when did anyone respectable go squatting over the Christmas holidays?

Meanwhile I watched TPR negotiate with one of the grown-up sons. They were working out a bed and breakfast rate. By my calculations the family owed us at least £1000 to cover the one night stay, the cost of the food, and the laundry.

I was sorely disappointed, and somewhat annoyed, when TPR announced that he had taken pity on the family, that they could stay free of charge, and that he would make up Christmas stockings for the children. When I saw him round up my own toys for the stockings – including a pink cotton teddy that I had sewn myself, and the Jenners teddy bear given to me when I was a baby – I was beside myself with rage.