...For all you Monday to Friday away from home contractors.
The first week of a new contract - away from home with no regular place to rest my head; such was my situation a few Fridays back when I arrived for a one night residence in a charming little B&B in a South Oxfordshire village.
Having unpacked my bags, I decided to venture out for a spot of dinner and made my way to the local inn, England's Rose, a delightful old coaching inn set just off the A40.
The heavy oak door to the lounge bar creaked as it swung open and I took in the eclectic array of art and bric a bric on display around the flock wallpapered room before my eyes alighted on the beaming face of my host. Welcoming looking chap, I thought, and made my way over to the bar to order a pint of Brakspears Oxford Gold.
"Dining with us tonight sir?" enquired the barman in a rich Caledonian lilt as he gestured with a sweep of his hand at a
gigantic chalkboard menu on which were scrawled so many options it was like reading the honours boards in the dressing rooms at Lords.
I've always been a bit circumspect about having such a huge range on a menu - it leads one to think how long has that piece of gammon been hanging around long forgotten in some dank, mouldy recess of the pub fridge? Consequently, I opted for a three egg omelette with chips thinking that at least the ingredients would be fresh.
Indeed, what was served up certainly didn't disappoint. The only which struck me as being a little odd about the evening's proceedings was my encounter with a life sized cardboard cutout of the royal family at the end of the corridor leading to the gents. It must have been very old as it was a family gathering featuring Charles and Di and the strange thing about it was that the only members of the ensemble to retain their heads were Di and the three corgis.
That aside, I was suitably impressed with the place so I enquired as to whether they had a room available for the following week whilst I was paying up. The chap behind the bar, who informed me that his name was Lance, replied in the affirmative so I asked him to reserve me a room for the week.
I hot footed it back to the B&B with a spring in my step; I was going to enjoy my week at England's Rose!
Monday arrived and once more I found myself at the imposing entrance of England's Rose only this time things were different. Gone was Lance, who I had taken to be the landlord and in his place a rather brassy, nicotine stained woman who introduced herself as Diana ("Oi weren't baahrn Doi-anna but oi 'ad moi name changed boi deed poll").
Her attempts to drag herself out of the gutter in which she had obviously been raised were admirable but one can only go so far when one sports tattoos of the words "stout" and "bitter" on each boob.
Getting the preliminaries out of the way, I followed Di up the stairs to my room. She flung the door open and bustled over to the window, leaving a faint aroma of cheap perfume mingled with chip fat in her wake, and bade me come and admire the "best view in the whole of Aaaahxferdshire".
I glanced beyond the Aunt Sally set up in the garden for that evening's competition and observed the M40 gridlocked with nose to tail traffic.
Not quite my idea of a view.
Nonetheless, I unpacked and made my way down to the bar for dinner where I was introduced to the pub's plongeur-cum-potman. Perched on a bar stool was a dwarf called Little Bob who cackled wildly at every utterance emanating from anyone's mouth, no matter if it was funny or not, while kicking his little legs out in front of him.
Not particularly wanting to engage this character while I was eating, I quickly made a beeline for the farthest table from the bar.
And it was here, bathed in the glare of the strip lighting, that the penny suddenly dropped. The pictures on the wall, that I hadn't really noticed in the gloom of my previous visit, all featured Lady Di. The name of the pub - England's Rose, the landlady changing her name by deed poll to Diana - it appeared that I was in a shrine dedicated to our erstwhile Princess of Wales.
Losing my appetite, I returned to my room where I decided I would spend the night before packing my bags and leaving on pretence of having to attend an emergency back home.
I went down to the bar the next morning to settle up to find that Laughing Bob was still on his bar stool screeching madly and peddling away at his imaginary go-kart. It was at this point when I started thinking about old gentleman Lance from Friday night where did he fit into all this?
Bang on cue, the door to the pub swung open and in he came, closely followed by two police officers. The mask had slipped - he was evidently as mad as the rest of them.
Apparently he'd been found on the streets of Thame at two in the morning in a puddle of piddle wearing his cacks on his head and had spent the night in the cells.
What a mad house!
The moral of the story? Make sure you see your room before making your reservation and ensure that the person with whom you are conducting business is the landlord or landlady of the pub.
The first week of a new contract - away from home with no regular place to rest my head; such was my situation a few Fridays back when I arrived for a one night residence in a charming little B&B in a South Oxfordshire village.
Having unpacked my bags, I decided to venture out for a spot of dinner and made my way to the local inn, England's Rose, a delightful old coaching inn set just off the A40.
The heavy oak door to the lounge bar creaked as it swung open and I took in the eclectic array of art and bric a bric on display around the flock wallpapered room before my eyes alighted on the beaming face of my host. Welcoming looking chap, I thought, and made my way over to the bar to order a pint of Brakspears Oxford Gold.
"Dining with us tonight sir?" enquired the barman in a rich Caledonian lilt as he gestured with a sweep of his hand at a
gigantic chalkboard menu on which were scrawled so many options it was like reading the honours boards in the dressing rooms at Lords.
I've always been a bit circumspect about having such a huge range on a menu - it leads one to think how long has that piece of gammon been hanging around long forgotten in some dank, mouldy recess of the pub fridge? Consequently, I opted for a three egg omelette with chips thinking that at least the ingredients would be fresh.
Indeed, what was served up certainly didn't disappoint. The only which struck me as being a little odd about the evening's proceedings was my encounter with a life sized cardboard cutout of the royal family at the end of the corridor leading to the gents. It must have been very old as it was a family gathering featuring Charles and Di and the strange thing about it was that the only members of the ensemble to retain their heads were Di and the three corgis.
That aside, I was suitably impressed with the place so I enquired as to whether they had a room available for the following week whilst I was paying up. The chap behind the bar, who informed me that his name was Lance, replied in the affirmative so I asked him to reserve me a room for the week.
I hot footed it back to the B&B with a spring in my step; I was going to enjoy my week at England's Rose!
Monday arrived and once more I found myself at the imposing entrance of England's Rose only this time things were different. Gone was Lance, who I had taken to be the landlord and in his place a rather brassy, nicotine stained woman who introduced herself as Diana ("Oi weren't baahrn Doi-anna but oi 'ad moi name changed boi deed poll").
Her attempts to drag herself out of the gutter in which she had obviously been raised were admirable but one can only go so far when one sports tattoos of the words "stout" and "bitter" on each boob.
Getting the preliminaries out of the way, I followed Di up the stairs to my room. She flung the door open and bustled over to the window, leaving a faint aroma of cheap perfume mingled with chip fat in her wake, and bade me come and admire the "best view in the whole of Aaaahxferdshire".
I glanced beyond the Aunt Sally set up in the garden for that evening's competition and observed the M40 gridlocked with nose to tail traffic.
Not quite my idea of a view.
Nonetheless, I unpacked and made my way down to the bar for dinner where I was introduced to the pub's plongeur-cum-potman. Perched on a bar stool was a dwarf called Little Bob who cackled wildly at every utterance emanating from anyone's mouth, no matter if it was funny or not, while kicking his little legs out in front of him.
Not particularly wanting to engage this character while I was eating, I quickly made a beeline for the farthest table from the bar.
And it was here, bathed in the glare of the strip lighting, that the penny suddenly dropped. The pictures on the wall, that I hadn't really noticed in the gloom of my previous visit, all featured Lady Di. The name of the pub - England's Rose, the landlady changing her name by deed poll to Diana - it appeared that I was in a shrine dedicated to our erstwhile Princess of Wales.
Losing my appetite, I returned to my room where I decided I would spend the night before packing my bags and leaving on pretence of having to attend an emergency back home.
I went down to the bar the next morning to settle up to find that Laughing Bob was still on his bar stool screeching madly and peddling away at his imaginary go-kart. It was at this point when I started thinking about old gentleman Lance from Friday night where did he fit into all this?
Bang on cue, the door to the pub swung open and in he came, closely followed by two police officers. The mask had slipped - he was evidently as mad as the rest of them.
Apparently he'd been found on the streets of Thame at two in the morning in a puddle of piddle wearing his cacks on his head and had spent the night in the cells.
What a mad house!
The moral of the story? Make sure you see your room before making your reservation and ensure that the person with whom you are conducting business is the landlord or landlady of the pub.
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