Well have to stay at yours for a while, seeing as we havent got a penny to rub together for our own place! declared my friend without so much as a flicker of shame.
Let me put it out there: Im not your typical retiree glued to the telly with a mug of tea. Im sixty-five and I still manage to galivant about, popping in and out of new spots and meeting a mishmash of wonderfully odd people. My glory days bring a misty smile and a tragic sigh all at once. Back in the day, holidays were a free-for-all! You could spend your summer wherever your heart (or cheap coach tickets) fancied. Pack a mac, nip down to Brighton, or rough it under canvas in the New Forest with a gaggle of mates. You could even splash out on a river cruise, probably on the Thames, all for a fistful of pounds.
But alas, those salad days are now ancient history.
Meeting new people has always tickled me pink. Ive chatted up strangers on Blackpool beach, run into kindred spirits in the West End, and struck up friendships that have outlasted more than one hairstyle.
One fateful summer, I met a woman called Hazel. We were thrown together at a ramshackle old B&B in Bournemouth. By the end, we parted as the best of chums. We swapped addresses, exchanged birthday cards, the usual polite niceties. Then, years laterout of the bluea telegram landed on my mat. No name. Just: Train arrives 3am. Meet me at the station!
Now, you have to wonder who on earth would send such a cryptic message. Naturally, my husband and I decided not to wander down to the station to meet a mysterious someone in the middle of the night. Sensible, right? Yet at four in the morning, our doorbell nearly shattered the peace. I shuffled to the door in my slippers and nearly fainted on the spot. There was Hazel, flanked by two teenage girls, her gran, and a bloke Id never clapped eyes on. Oh, and they seemed to have brought the entire contents of John Lewis with them.
My husband and I gawked like a pair of startled meerkats but, being British, we politely let them ineven offered the biscuit tin. Hazel looked at me, aghast:
But why didnt you fetch us from the station? I sent a telegram! Had to pay for a taxi and all!
Sorry, Hazel, but I hadnt a clue who sent it!
Well, youve got my address now, so here we are!
Honestly, Hazel, I thought we were just pen pals
Hazel soon explained: one of the girls had just finished school and fancied herself at university in our part of London. So, quite naturally, the whole clan had come to lend moral support.
Well just kip here! Theres no way we can afford the rent these days. And youre so close to the city centre!
I nearly dropped the kettle. We werent even proper relatives! Why on earth was I suddenly expected to provide a free bed and breakfast for a family of four and assorted baggage? Not only did I have to feed them three times a day, but they never so much as boiled a kettle. I was running around like Mrs Beetons less glamorous cousin.
After three days of this, I snapped. I politely (but firmly) asked Hazel and her flock to find another nest. Didnt much care where, if Im honest. Well, youd think Id suggested they sleep in Trafalgar Square! Hazel launched into full melodrama, smashing a mug and howling like she was auditioning for EastEnders.
Mortified doesnt cover it. Eventually, they left in a huff. And would you believe it? They only managed to make off with my favourite dressing gown, a pile of towels and, somehow, my best saucepancomplete with Sundays leftover cabbage. Still cant fathom how they sneaked that out. The pan just vanished, like a bad dream.
And so concluded our grand friendshipwith a pinch of theft and an oddly shaped hole in my kitchen cupboard. Thank heavens for small mercies. I havent seen or heard from Hazel since. These days, when it comes to befriending strangers, lets just say I keep my house keys firmly in my pocket.
