It’s Saturday morning, just gone nine and I’m still in bed.  It’s a rare treat now and I am savouring every second, despite the fact I have a house full later.  For now, all is quiet, if you zone out the not so gentle rumble of Bertie’s snores.

          We’re only at mid-May but already the season is brisk, with walkers on the camino de Santiago arriving in higher numbers than ever; the Australians and Kiwis making up for several years of not being able to travel.  It’s great to receive so many international travellers and to discover their stories, as well as to welcome back guests who now feel like dear friends and to share in the excitement of wedding parties. 

          It’s all great fun, but exhausting too and terrifying if I look too far ahead and see the bookings stacking up; back-to-back nightly change-overs equal a lot of ironing, hoovering, window-cleaning, bathroom scrubbing, etc.  But it burns calories and means I have less time to dwell on what I can eat next.  And I’m getting through a shed load of audio books and box-sets; although ironing and trying to watch something with sub-titles is a bit tricksy.   

          Of course, there are the curved balls which always arrive just when I think everything is under control.  This week it was the explosion of the hot water tank in the basement.  Thank goodness I was at home and was able to limit the damage to the boiler room and thankfully the cavalry weren’t far away; Antony and Mike pull me out of so many holes. 

          Naturally it all happened on a day of pouring rain when drying piles of sheets and towels was beyond trying.  I have two hot water tanks.  How’s that for showing off?  It happened on my second least-busiest day of the week, so guests could all be located in rooms which use the other tank.  And was followed by an increasingly rare day when I had no bookings.  So all sorted. Though I am no more excited by my shiny new tank, than I am by my shiny new swimming pool pump.  More dipping in to the repairs and maintenance fund; of which there’s only about €32 left for the rest of the year.  Please God don’t make me have to dip in to my ‘Michelle you’re worth it’ pot.

          Speaking of which, God sent me an angel recently and the most incredible co-incidence.  Last summer my hairdresser Eric decided he’d had enough and hung up his scissors.  I didn’t know how much I adored him until the pandemic when I realised I missed him more than anyone else.  Finding another Eric has been nigh on impossible and I’ve had a series of disappointments.  Then a friend of a friend popped in for a coffee.  We were both missing our friend who has recently moved to Provence; ‘the only two people who miss me, apart from my mum,’ she reckons. 

          We got chatting; we had lots in common.  The same age, same home town, both moved to London around the same time and so it went on.  She was a hairdresser.  Interesting, I thought.  Then she named the salon where she did her apprenticeship. 

          ‘That’s amazing,’ I said, ‘I used to go there.’

          ‘Maybe I was there.’

          ‘Definitely, I started going there when I was sixteen. And my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend also worked there.’

          I named her. 

          ‘Oh God.  She was my best friend.  Your boyfriend wasn’t Robin Clark was it?’

          ‘The very same.’

          ‘I used to go out with his best friend.’

          Robin Clark broke my heart and I moved to London to start again. And what an adventure Robin Clark set me on.  And who would’ve thought decades later in a quiet corner of south-west France I would find my perfect hairdresser, who actually Eric, Top-Trumps you.  And although she is already too busy, agreed to take me on as a client, because she likes me, I hope, even though I asked if she could make me look like Paula Yates.   But yes Robin Clark I think you swung it for me.  At last, you were worth it.  Thank you.