My Not So Perfect Life(53)

What with him amusing the children, and Biddy making pots of jam the whole time, plus all the grown-up pursuits too, I do worry they’re going to burn out. But every time I say that to Dad or Biddy, they just laugh and come up with some new idea, like offering hay-baling lessons. During the week we’ve got a whole activity program called Somerset Skills. There’s willow-weaving, woodcraft, foraging—and the guests love it.

So, basically, the glamping site has started off as a roaring success. But whether they can make an actual profit…



Sometimes, just the thought of how much money Biddy’s thrown into this venture gives me a gnawing feeling inside. She won’t tell me exactly how much she’s invested—but it’s a lot. And that’s money that could have been put aside for her old age.

Anyway. There’s no point fretting about it. All I can do is help them turn this place into a profitable business. Which means, for starters, that “Farmer Mick” has to stop doling out free Somerset toffees, because: 1. He goes through boxes a day. 2. He eats half of them himself. 3. One of the parents has already complained about her child being given evil sugary treats.

The parents of the triplets appear from their yurt, followed by Steve Logan, who’s carrying their luggage for them. Steve helps us out on Saturdays, which are our turnaround days. And although he’s incredibly annoying, he’s also annoyingly useful. His hands are so huge, he can shift about three holdalls at once, and he always puts on this ridiculous deferential air, in the hope of tips.

“You mind how you go, sir,” he’s saying now, as he loads their SUV. “You look after yourselves now, sir. You have a safe trip, now. Lovely family. You should be very proud. We’ll miss you.”

“We’ll miss you!” exclaims the mum, who is in a stripy top, just like her children, and clutching the lavender cushion she made yesterday. “We’ll miss all of you! Farmer Mick, and Biddy, and Katie, you’re an angel….” She seizes me in a sudden hug, and I hug her back, because they are a lovely family, and I know she means it.

I’m Katie here, to everyone. Of course I am. I’d never even try to be Cat. Not only am I Katie, but I’m a version of Katie even I don’t quite recognize sometimes. My London accent has gone. No point trying to sound urban here. It was always a bit of a strain, and the glampers don’t want to hear London; they want to hear Somerset. Thick, creamy Zummerzet, the way I was brought up.



My bangs have gone too. The hairstyle was so bloody needy, and it never felt like me. It’s not even feasible now that I’m not straightening my hair every day. I’m giving it a rest from heat treatments, which means the sleek chignon is gone and I’m back to my trademark Katie Brenner natural curls, tumbling down my back, tousled by the breeze. Nor am I bothering with flicky liquid eyeliner and three coats of mascara these days. And I’ve put my “city” glasses away in a drawer. You couldn’t exactly say I have a “look” anymore, but I’m so busy, I don’t care. My face is fuller too—all those delicious dinners—and tanned from the sun. A dusting of freckles has even appeared on my nose. I don’t look like me.

Well, maybe I look like a different me.

“What a beautiful family,” intones Steve, as the triplets climb into the SUV. “Family of little angels, they are. Little angels from heaven.”

I shoot a furious glare at Steve. He’s totally overdoing it and if he’s not careful, they’ll think he’s mocking them.

But the mum’s eyes glow even more, and the dad feels in his pocket.

“Ah. Now…here you are. Many thanks.” He hands Steve a note and I roll my eyes. It’ll only encourage him. Steve practically bows as the doors clunk shut, and we all wave as the car heads off down the drive.



That’s the last family of the week. All the yurts are now vacated.

There’s a short silence between us all, as though we’re contemplating this momentous fact. Then Biddy turns to me, claps her hands together in a businesslike way, and says, “Right.”

And it begins.

The thing about turnaround day is, it’s fine, as long as you don’t stop even for a moment. Biddy and I grab our cleaning things from the pantry and tackle the first two yurts. After half an hour, Denise from the village arrives, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m never totally sure that Denise is going to turn up.

While Denise takes over the cleaning, Biddy and I move on to preparing and styling the yurts. Fresh flowers in vases. Fresh supplies in the hamper. Fresh soap, fresh lavender sprigs, fresh WELCOME TO ANSTERS FARM card on the bed, each one handwritten:

To Nick, Susie, Ivo, and Archie.

To James and Rita.

To Chloe and Henry.

Chloe and Henry are James and Rita’s children, but they’re teenagers, so they’re in their own yurt. We don’t often get teens, and I hope there’s enough for them to do.

To Giles, Cleo, Harrison, Harley, and Hamish, plus Gus the dog!

This week is half term. In fact, last week was half term too—the schools seem to be picking different weeks this year because there’s an extra bank holiday this Friday. Which is great for us: double the bookings. So we’re crammed full of families, with cots and trundle beds everywhere. As I’m laying out blankets, I quickly check on my phone: Harley’s a girl. Right. Some of these trendy names, you really can’t be sure.