The life and times of Fee-I-ona, and The Hunt for Red October

I was, in all seriousness, simply trying to return a Morrison's carrier bag to Rachel. I felt it was the least I could do after she left a 59p jar of blackcurrent jam outside my room. But, I didn't expect to find her holed up in a kitchen cupboard eating a bowl of pesto pasta. She looked up and, after several minutes of laughter, informed me that Fiona had just got into bed. Wondering how she could possibly know that, she replied, "you see this pipe here? It's not a pipe at all, it's a periscope. When I'm bored in the evening I'll come and sit in the submarine, watch the swallows, and spy on Fiona. Do you know any interesting submarine facts, K?!" I don't. But as my mum knows a lot about Sean Connery and The Hunt for Red October, we gave her a call. Which might have been a mistake. She got a little bit confused, and the conversation ended with her having the impression that I was taking Benji to bed. 

I took Benji to the station in the morning, but not before an emotional goodbye at the hostel. He presented each of us with a tourist map of Malaysia, and a heat pack/hand warmer. I donated mine to Fiona (to supplement her emergency cardigan), but with all the instructions being in Japanese I'm not sure any of us will be able to figure out how to use them. Benji is now bound for London, and the YHA at St Pancreas - which will make quite a change from Eskdale! I think London will probably suit him better, though. With the phone signal, wifi, and dozens of Tesco's to choose from. 

Mick is now very much on his own. I often wonder how he puts up with three 'verging on insane' women. I suppose he must be quite used to it - being married to Rachel. I was trying to get him to join in the whole 'coooooeeee' thing the other day. I asked him why he doesn't want to say it, to which he replied, "I would just sound a bit stupid. Not that you don't." Then he left the room to go and superimpose a photo of his boss' head onto Aristotle's body. 

Fiona continues to experience moments of enlightenment whilst sanitising the kitchen sinks. The latest episode resulted in a spectacular mash up of Puff the Magic Dragon and Morning Town. She has now (quite rightly so) demanded that we call her Fee-I-ona. We were then regaled with an epic tale (complete with many tangents) which more or less entirely explains Fiona's existence in this world. Fiona's mother is called Frances. But, on her birth certificate it was spelt 'Francis'. So, she spent the first twenty years of her life running around saying, "I'm not a boy, I'm not a boy!" She even had two children to prove it. And thus it came to pass that Fiona/Fee-I-ona is with us today. 

We enjoy what could best be described as an eclectic mix of conversation topics. This morning, during our 30 minute breakfast break, we were discussing keloid scars and John the Baptist. But we were soon drawn away to help a couple of guests locate their misplaced prunes and marmalade. Although there is a certain element of routine to this job, it is never what you could call predictable. I think, because of this, we all have certain areas where we seek to hang on to a vestige of control. Mine is most definitely the drinks fridge. In fact, I'm a little bit OCD about making sure it's always topped up, and that the bottles are neatly in line. For no other reason than this, I have been made Bar Manager. Which is probably a lot more fancy than it sounds. 

It has been a busy week for us, and a busy few days for this end of the valley as a whole. The Woolpack Inn has been hosting their annual cider and sausage festival, which is always hugely popular. Although, I suspect the staff there wouldn't be too upset if they never saw another banger again. 

PS. While I was vacuuming I found a Sex Pistols key ring under one of the beds. Still in its packet. Makes a change from those annoying little hair grips.