I think you, my loyal readers, number about eight now.

The thing about you of particular interest to me, speaking as a marketing person, is your demographic profile.

About six months ago, after a year of searching, I finally began to find 'my voice'.  I am a sort of Bridget Clarkson hybrid - part labrador, part rottweiler.

And the end purpose of this blog (quite apart from helping with SEO-ing this website) is hopefully to one day turn it into a book aimed at women emerging financially impoverished, and emotionally wobbly, from recent relationship breakdowns, to encourage them that not all, henceforward, need necessarily be doom and gloom.

But I am speaking to a void.  OK Robert - you're not a void - simply not the audience I was targetting or expecting!

My sense is that about 70% of you are dry, clever, witty men. LOVELY!

About 10% are my friends who live abroad and want to stay in touch.

About 10% are my lovely B&B guests.

And about 10% is the Mum of my son's friend from school.  Eeek! I am absolutely chuffed to bits about this, but will have to be careful! Revered Son is not happy to be the subject of his Mum's blog...

Anyway - that adds up to nearly 100% doesn't it? And then there's that taxi company in Jaipur - better not forget them!

"Snoop Dog was fantastic," reported 15 year old Revered Son on his mobile this morning,  "but the hurricane has blown down all the floodlights, and the campsite is such chaos it looks quite funny.  The campervans are OK though."

He had saved up £180 from somewhere to join every other teenager in the south west, from the local butcher's apprentice, to good girls from safe schools, to posh cool kids from avant garde schools like my son and  his friends, to descend on the Boardmasters Festival at Watergate Bay, Newquay.  And now the second day of festivities was to be abandoned, thanks to Hurricane Bertha. 

The most interesting thing about this Festival, in my opinion, is what happens regarding sexanddrugsandrocknroll.  There had been considerable emailed  correspondence amongst the Mums of my four boys,  in advance of the Festival, working towards a united approach on alcohol consumption.

This varied from "We will impose a complete ban on any alcohol and trust them to keep to it," to "We will allow them a couple of bottles of lager and after that they will be left to their own devices as to how they are going to source anything else." 

I was responsible for delivering the boys to the site, and I reassured the Mums that I would collect them direct from the station, bring them home, and then take them straight on to the festival, so the only supplies they could have access to would be from the sheep outside, or my cellar of plonk.

The Festival organisers, we understood, had imposed a complete ban on spirits, and a maximum of 12 cans of lager per adult, and no alcohol for Under 18s.  Meanwhile the social media were alive with ruses for smuggling in booze and that ghastly NOS stuff - what us Mums are used to taking during childbirth, and it jolly well didnt make me laugh. 

Have you seen those pictures of pretty teenage girls in their LBD's breathing in and out of coloured balloons to enjoy a brief, legal, and apparently relatively safe and inexpensive high?  They look absurd.  The suppliers describe and sell the equipment as being useful to make whipped cream.  What's wrong with an egg beater?  Bonkers. 

Anyway, apparently the way you smuggle NOS into these festivals is to stuff the canisters up the hollow metal legs of your picnic chair.  Bottles are incorporated into a carved out loaf of sliced bread, and vodka in a punctured coke can re-sealed with a glue gun.  My feeling is that these adolescents are more excited about how to outwit the security men than in the taste of alcohol, or breathing in nitrous oxide.

On the way to the Festival I had to buy some croissants from Morrison's, some sausages from the butchers, and collect the laundry.  "You can all buy your lunch while I collect the croissants," I merrily trilled to my young passengers.

I reached the till.  Oooops.  What had I just done?  I'd proactively delivered the fearsome four into what to all intents and purposes was an offy!  "You see those four boys over there?" I hissed to the till assistant.  "Well they're all 15."

Hah - Got them! 

She pressed a flashing light and pointed to her badge which stated that anyone appearing under 25 would be asked for ID.  "I would have stopped them anyway," she said.  So all they came out with were some sandwiches and a packet of crisps.  Phew.

Meanwhile yesterday, after cooking breakfast for six B&Bers, clearing it all up, and then preparing rooms for six more - missing the local fete as a result - Beloved Daughter and I finally reached Widecombe to walk the show-jumping and cross country courses at about 6pm, while young Maggie plaited up the horses back home for £15, ready for today's One Day Event.  I was so tired I could hardly stand up.  How Sashka does it day after day I have no idea.

The show jumps came up to our ankles, but the cross country course was quite a different story.  Several of the jumps were too large for me to step over.  Terrifying!

Finally, as we reached the brow of the hill, having walked two miles up and down vertigious hills, a cry went up.  "It's been cancelled!"

Thank God, in a way.  Breakfast for six again this morning and I am a walking zombie.  I think three rooms, or six guests, is too many if you are operating a B&B on your own, are over 50, and trying to do anything else as well.  I have no regrets regarding my decision to restrict myself to two rooms in future.

Three rooms and it's no longer fun.

I am so nervous that I haven't been able to sleep properly for the past few nights.

I have entered Beloved Daughter vs me in a horsey competition to take place in the middle of the forecast hurricane, on top of one of the highest hills in Dartmoor just outside Widecombe, this Sunday.

I’ve booked Sally to make breakfast for our six guests, while Beloved Daughter and I rise before light to hitch up the trailer, prepare our horses, and arrive at the venue for not long after eight in the morning.

The list of other entrants has now arrived, and, as I expected, the rest of the people in our class are mostly aged nine, like Beloved Daughter’s friend, Willow, on her pony Twizzle who is very hairy and slightly smaller than a Great Dane Dog. Of 16 competitors, only three apart from me have undisclosed ages, ie old ladies who should know better. Although I did tell the organisers my age, so I wouldn’t mind at all if they’d printed it.  I think there should be a cup for the oldest combination of horse and rider, as well as one for ‘Best Under Ten’.  In fact I think I will donate one for next year’s competition.

There are three stages to the ‘One Day Event’.  We have to learn by heart, and perform a dressage test, which means walking, trotting and cantering around in circles. Beloved Daughter has never done one of these before. Then we have to jump some painted poles, which fall down if you touch them.  And finally we have to canter a mile or two around a cross country course jumping brown fences, which don’t budge however hard you hit them. In BD’s and my class, the jumps come up to your knees.

Both of our horses are big, scopey, talented and experienced professionals for grown-ups, used to jumping huge, solid, wide jumps 3'6" high from the gallop, and to doing all sorts of incredibly complicated gymnastics in dressage.  So both of them can easily manage what we are asking them to do on Sunday, with their eyes shut, asleep.

But the big question is, will they?

Trip Advisor Ranking: 5; Number Of People Reading This Diary: 6!!!!!

How exciting is that?!

The first time I rented out Wydemeet, it took Sashka, Kate and me nearly two months of preparation, stress and worry, thinking through what needed to be done, tidying up the garden, the field, mending things, painting things, deep cleaning; sorting out and emptying all drawers; throwing things away etc.

We were treading on each other's toes, with one person turning radiators off and another turning them back on again; one person putting things away and another getting them out again; all my precious beyond their sell-by-date pots being thrown away and me picking them back out of the bin; Kate providing me with a pair of curtains to hide my extensive plonk cellar from prying eyes; Kate hiding what's laughingly called my jewellery so that I couldnt find it; Sashka worrying about children going into the horses' field in case either party got hurt; me writing out extensive notes on how to work the Aga, the heating, the water, and what to do when everything went wrong; Tesco crate after Tesco crate of the family's belongings all cleared out to be stored away in safety...

Well.  

Last Monday I sat down for my usual coffee and fag with Sashka and her wonky knee, and said, "They're coming on Saturday.  Please could you do everything so that I don't have to panic about it.  I've just remembered we're meeting friends in Polzeath today; we're shopping and swimming tomorrow; I've got an internet lunch date on Wednesday; and lunch with Mum and my brother in Exeter on Thursday."

"That's fine," she said, and hobbled off to make up the first two of five bedrooms.

Wydemeet, being on Permanent Alert for guests is in a totally different state of overall repair now, compared with how it was 18 months ago.  This is one of the many upsides about running a B&B business.  But there are limits.

11.00pm Wednesday: Beloved Daughter, who leaves for an outward bound weekend in Wales the next morning, says, "I am so tired I feel dizzy, I can't do any more."

"No worries, I reply, I'll finish clearing up your Hell-hole room tomorrow."

6pm Thursday: Guests call to say can they come a day early.  "That's fine," I say - I offer a platinum service. Put down the phone and immediately call Sashka. 

"Help! Help! They're coming a day early! What are we (you) going to do, wonky knee and all??"

"That's fine," says Sashka, "I'll rope in my daughter and niece to help."

11.00pm Thursday: Mary says to herself, "I am so tired I feel dizzy, I can't do any more," and lies back on Beloved Daughter's unmade bed.

11.00am Friday: Mary comes in from mowing so hot she can't see through the sweat streaming down her face, bringing with it stinging mascara and suncream sloshing into her eyes.  To Sashka, who arrived at 7am and has just finished the strimming:  "Sashka, I am so tired I feel dizzy, I can't do any more."

"That's fine," says Sashka; "Get out of my hair and go to your Mum's."

So here I am.  Having done virtually nothing  at all to prepare my home for a week of visitors; and yet, if they have read the blurb properly and genuinely enjoy remoteness, mostly thanks to Sashka they should be having a jolly nice time.  Well I hope they are.  I don't even know whether they're leaving a day early, or have just got themselves an extra day simply through asking!

I'm sitting typing away, looking out through the rain and pine trees at the most exquisite part of West Dorset.  My horses are happily munching away at a livery in Mapperton, a hamlet just outside Beaminster, which is one of the most beautiful spots on earth, with high, deep, steep valleys of pasture, woodland, and winding river, long gallops and views across a patchwork of undulating fields over to the sea.  I have just enjoyed one of the best rides of my life with Mum's delightful next door neighbour, and the old banger Nissan made it to the livery and back - a miracle in itself.

I haven't spent eight solid days with my mother since I was at school, but the only spat we have had so far was when she tried to make me eat some week-old ham when there was a perfectly good quiche in the freezer, that had only cost £1.25.

This is truly one of the most enjoyable and relaxing holidays I have ever had.

And every minute that I sit here indulging myself - I am being paid for the privilege!

I think I had better just pinch myself!

"The thing about Granny's house is that you think nothing bad can happen to you there," says Revered Son.

I've done six days now, and I'm beginning to worry that I seem to have nothing to worry about.  I also struggle to manage nine hours sleep, when I'm used to seven.

It's the sort of house where you can go upstairs in your boots, and all the mirrors are speckly because Granny isn't really interested in appearances.  Her face is a patchwork quilt, and her knuckles are of endless fascination to RS. I dare say I shall look similar soon.  At least I will be shorter than I am now - Granny has shrunk by about six inches so far.

But her home is calm and feels safe.  Even all the in-laws, and ex-in-laws, find they can completely relax here.

Granny has been in a bit of a state for the past week because she is partially responsible for the annual (there has been one before) Hymns and Pimms evening tonight at the local church - where I got married 20 years ago, so I know that it seats precisely 70, as we personally measured each pew with our bums.  I read recently, or heard it on Jeremy Vine, that a chemical is released that makes you more anxious and cautious as you get older.  Well that chemical has been released in Granny and I hope they have found an antidote for it by the time it's my turn.

Anyway - there must have been 70 people there, as the church was full.  Granny read a lesson, and I felt a lump in my throat, as if it had been 12 year old Beloved Daughter.  She had been up to the church earlier to practise, and it showed. Dad, who used to train young Etonians to read in Eton College Chapel, would have been proud of her immaculate and dignified performance.


I was a bit unprepared for the hymns part of the evening to include prayers as well - the less involved with praying I get, the odder it all seems.  And I felt that I could have played the organ in a slightly more rousing fashion - although I have always found 'Jerusalem' a bit tricky.


And then, being Mum's daughter and on parade, despite having just got off a horse, I had to help, which has never been my strong point.  I found myself handing round delicious smelling mini smoked salmon vol au vents, which, of course, I wasn't able to enjoy myself because my hands were full.


Well the thing was it was really fun.  And I just loved meeting Mum's local community.  They are charming do-ers, mostly of my kind of age, and I am quite envious of her.  one of them even knew two of the couples I've watched being featured on Four In a Bed!


But the coup d'etat was meeting a beautiful talented 16 yr old girl who sang a solo of the first verse of "I Vow to Thee My Country" even better than SueBo, who will be at school with Beloved Daughter, and who has already come across Revered Son at some awful festival or other.  


Post Hymns and Pimms, they were in touch via Facebook even more quickly than I could manage via texting, and he will be cycling over to her house from here on his return from gallivanting around SW6 tomorrow.  So church is still bringing young people together, just like in the days of Thomas Hardy.

My ladylike glow turned into rivers of sweat running down my face, my back, and under my arms.  My heart started beating really fast and my tummy clenched.

Three tons of horse behind me, Revered Son oblivious under his headphones beside me, and I couldn't steer.  Was I imagining things? We had to round another small corner and the car felt funny again. Help!  I put on the hazard warning lights and slowed to a crawl up the hill, as the engine started going twang, kerplunk, ping;  and, after what felt like an eternity, I just managed to manoeuvre myself into the new service station opposite Exeter Racecourse.

Calling the AA was top priority, but my card was lost after the last call-out just a week ago, and my phone was low. The AA said they'd be out in two hours but could not take responsibility for the horses.  It was 4.55pm and everyone would be going home in five minutes time.  Unbelievably there was no phone number listed for the first Exeter 4x4 rental place I managed to track down on Chrome.  But White Horse Motors,  at 5.02pm, answered my call, and delivered the most enormous Isuzu to me within 20 minutes.  Meanwhile the AA arrived with their rescue truck to take away my old Nissan.  "It's just three snapped cables" they said.  "It'll cost £45 plus the cost of the cables plus VAT, ready by Tuesday when you have to return the hire car."


At this point there were two rescue trucks, the AA van, the Isuzu, the Nissan and the trailer all there to rescue me, on my long trek to my Mum's.  We took up most of the carpark!  And I was £325 down.


A giant juggernaut in a tunnel,  and an oversized tractor pulling a massive trailer of hay in a tiny lane later, we finally arrived at the livery just outside Beaminster, where I kept my first horse 22 years ago.  A journey which should have taken two hours, had taken six.


But I was finally here.


My second holiday of the month about to begin!

Someone is reading  this.  In fact two people are.  I've no idea who you are, but I'm chuffed to bits!

You've commented below  - that you've no idea 'why?'.

This is because I couldn't complete the editorial part of this Blog for ages, as JustHost, the people who support my site, appear not to have managed to make their system work for i-pads.  So finally now I find myself on my Mums four year old Acer in her kitchen, because I've rented  out Wydemeet and have nowhere else to go, and no access to my normal computer.

Yesterday I rang up JustHost in America at midnight and yelled "Your country managed to put men on the moon 42 years ago (or was it? and did they actually - the photo was all wrong) so why cant you make your stupid system work on the most popular and common tablet (or whatever its called) of all in the whole world?!"  The bloke said 'Have a nice day' and hung up on me.

I have written to Manchester City Council about their taxi operators, and they have written back predictably saying that without reference numbers they cant do anything.  Rubbish.  They can tell their drivers to learn English, learn their way around Manchester without the use of satnav, and to smile.

I have written to Nielson who have predictably come back charmingly, saying they'll look into the matter over the next 28 days.

I have written to the Manchester Airport Inn who predictably have not replied.  I have also written them a review on Trip Advisor which is so bad that the Trip Advisor computer came back to me saying, "please press this button if you really meant to mention bedbugs in your review."  So I pressed the button.

I currently have court cases pending regarding Bill (my Shogun), BT, and a plumber from five years ago who is of no fixed abode.

My Angry of Wydemeet filing drawer is full to bursting, and I am finding being so permanently cross is very tiring and doesn't produce a flattering wrinkle formation.

What I don't understand is what normal people do when they find themselves being treated as idiots, as happens to me so often.  Do they just let it go, so that the perpetrators go on to rip off more innocent, gentle, busy people who aren't in a position to stand up to them?

You tell me.

With best regards (and immense gratitude to my two readers)

Bridget Clarkson

We went to The Hurlingham Club/Verbier-On-Sea, otherwise known as Polzeath Beach, today.

I looked the same as everyone else.

"Are you expecting some kind of menage-a-trois or something?" I shouted, and I'm afraid to say I hurled the door key across the reception desk at the smug, dour, two young scousers sitting behind it.

It was 3.30am Turkey time. The first taxi at Manchester Airport had refused to take us to our hotel because 'they didn't know where it was'.  The second taxi kept driving for miles whilst I repeated 'Altrincham Road' over and over again, and dropped us at what turned out to be the wrong hotel in the opposite direction of where we were trying to go.  It took ages for another taxi to arrive and £30 later we arrived at the Britannia Airport Inn, just down the road from the airport, as I had planned, complete with indoor swimming pool. 

Avoid! Avoid! Avoid!

So it's 3.30am as I ask for the pre-booked triple room.  There's already been two cock-ups because the bookers originally booked me into the Gatwick Airport Inn, lucky I noticed, and then charged me £20 for the booking, instead of £117, which I kindly pointed out.  They unkindly didnt stick to the £20 quote (which I would have done, as I aim to offer a platinum service). The two young men surrupticiously glance at each other.

We open the bedroom door and it's one large bed with three sets of pillows on it. Revered Son is an enormous hairy 15 yr old, and Beloved Daughter scratches her eczma all night and kicks you in the head.  This is a no-go, and basically, dishonest.

So, half an hour later, they sort us into three rooms, but mine hasn't been cleaned.  Even I can't sleep in a stranger's sheets and use their towels.

So finally we are settled, as dawn begins to break. My alarm clock is packed in Beloved Daughter's suitcase on the other side of the hotel.  But I cant order an alarm call because the phone clearly hasn't worked for months.

In the morning the tv remote doesn't work.

At breakfast they have run out of mugs, bread (bread??!!) and bowls, my fruit salad is fizzy, and they've still got an hour to go. Meanwhile I hear that my neighbours' hair-dryer has caught fire. Then I see a rat running along the window-sill - oh no it's not, its's a MINK??!!

So I pop along for my recuperating swim and of course, there's no water in the pool.

You couldn't make it up.  And I haven't.