Ronnie Barker in drag
It was a dark winter's evening and you
could hear the rollers crashing against the Hove seafront. Back on
duty at 6pm, I dashed up the steps quickly to avoid the lashing rain,
through the revolving doors, and into my office. I was calmly
collecting my thoughts when Mary, the all knowing receptionist,
popped her head round the door:
“Sorry Mr B, Mrs Peartree up in room
46 is desperate for some champagne and two glasses and no-one else
has come in yet, I couldn't leave the desk; would you mind?”
No of course not. Service with a smile.
And it'll only take a minute or two. Good for guest contact and all
that. I'd deal with the little matter of why there wasn't someone
already here to do it later. In the meantime this guest was going to
get personal service.
I picked up a tray, crisp white
napkins, tow tall glasses, a silver bucket, the champagne, added a little water and the
ice, then off I went in the service lift up to the third floor.
I knocked on the bedroom door and a
lady's voice called “Come in”. I used my master key to let myself in.
I put the champagne down on the coffee
table and asked Mrs Peartree if she'd like me to open the champagne
now. Mr Peartree must have been in the bathroom. Mrs Peartree was a
vision of....I'm not quite sure what, maybe, a meringue? She looked
like Ronnie Barker in drag. Loads of make up, like an ugly sister,
and a pink chiffony nightdress thing. The sort I imagined the Queen
Mother must have worn. Oh and don't forget the Dame Edna glasses.
I asked if she needed anything else and
she told me to pour myself a glass of champagne.
“I can't possibly Mrs Peartree, I
have to get back down stairs and prepare for the evening,
and anyway I can't drink on duty”.
She'd advanced towards me by
now with her glass of champagne in one hand, already half drunk.
“Oh come on, you're the manager, you
can take a little time to look after one of your guests, surely?”
She now had a leery grin on her face
which reminded me of a slice of water melon. Too much lipstick.
I moved towards the door but she'd
anticipated this and now stood between me and my escape. What to do?
Ask her to move? Gently guide her away? She was having none of it.
Then suddenly my bleep started going
off and I'd been saved. I normally cursed the wretched thing but this
time it was a Godsend.
“Ah, sorry Mrs Peartree, must shoot”,
and with a that I niftily side-stepped her and got out quickly.
The things you have to put up with when
you're a hotel manager.
Of course no-one believed me when I
told them. Do you?
What the Press say
Where I'd rather be: Keith Floyd - Linthwaite House Hotel - Guardian Travel, January 2007
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What our Guests say
"An absolutely excellent stay made magical by the snow. In a location that was already beautiful, it transformed the grounds and views into something sensational. The inherent warmth of the staff (and the hotel) were lovely to return to after a day in the cold. There is no doubt that the ambiance of this hotel is exceptional; a combination of diligent, warm and friendly service, excellent food, warm fires and cosy lounges. Staff commitment was epitomised by the efforts made early each day to keep the drive both open and safe."
RD, Dec 09, Buckinghamshire