Darryl's Diary , livre ebook

Hawkwood Books - Brian Chaucer

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88 pages

English

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Description

Darryl gives up his job as an undertaker to buy and run a seaside hotel, with unexpected and often hilarious results.

Sujets

Humour

Informations

Publié par	Hawkwood Books
Date de parution	03 avril 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781908577948
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Table of Contents
Title Page
Welcome…
February 10th
February 11th
February 12th
February 17th
February 18th
February 19th
March 5th
March 28th
April 3rd
April 4th
April 11th
May 1st
May 24th
June 25th
July 6th
July 17th
July 18th
July 19th
July 26th
July 30th
August 5th
August 8th
September 3rd
September 12th
September 30th
October 14th
November 4th
Solicitor’s Note
Darryl’s Diary

Text copyright©2020 Brian Chaucer
Cover design images GoGraph.com

isbn 978-1-908577-98-6 (print)
isbn 978-1-908577-94-8 (online)

The Author has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance of characters therein to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Conditions of Sale
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any means without the permission of the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

1 3 5 4 2

Hawkwood Books 2020
Welcome…
…to the start of the diary of my new venture into the Hotel Trade, a completely different occupation to that which I have just discarded without a second thought.
Working many years as a mortuary assistant, I often yearned for some conversation and glamour in my life. I don’t seem to make friends easily and find it difficult to strike up a conversation that doesn’t finish prematurely when one is asked what one does for a living.
Naturally, I used to lie and say I worked on the buses or the trains - anything! - but the problem was that on the few occasions a new found friend would want to see me home I would find, on returning to the lounge after disappearing to make the tea or pour a drink, they would be looking at my bookshelves somewhat quizzically and trying to resist the temptation to touch ‘The Embalmers’ Trade Supply Catalogue’, or read the latest article such as,
FORMALDEHYDE EXPOSURES IN EMBALMING FOR WHOM THE TOXIC BELL TOLLS
a great read incidentally, and informative, although I won’t be sorry to leave this part of my past behind.
This, and my collection of interesting but minor dissecting instruments (all quite legal however) now preserved for posterity, adorn and add interest to my bookshelves but seem to make people, quite unreasonably in my view, edgy. They begin asking the most morbid questions, and as much as one tries to veer away from the subject of dealing with the deceased, it crops up again and again - often at the most frustrating of times. To get them into bed at this stage is nigh on impossible.
Even if I can get them as far as the bedroom, I find them looking at the bed linen carefully. I have long ago given up having silk on the beds as I am convinced that people thought it was made from the leftovers at work. The only odd bits I have ever brought home were a few handles that could not be used - the lacquer had started to peel - but which, with a bit of care and attention, I discovered made beautiful wardrobe handles.
Perhaps it’s the job after so many years but I like dark, heavy curtains and, I must admit possibly, although I don’t see why, the delightful small children’s Victorian coffin I use as an ottoman at the end of the bed. However, I realise this can be off-putting for the squeamish, so if I can get to it in time I try to cover it with some old lace curtains kept just for this purpose. This, and the odours of embalming fluid which seem to linger no matter how much I quickly dash around squirting Haze air freshener, seems to add to the general nervousness and apparent recoil when gently touching or caressing, only to be greeted with, “Oh, aren’t your hands cold?”
A change of life, a new career, was called for and so I have sold my house in Romford and decided to open a gay friendly guest house in S__. I did consider Blackpool, but when I looked at the sheer number of hotels, I thought there would be no way I could make a living amongst so much competition, and with so many prestigious establishments. The chandeliers and grand pianos, even curtains better than anything I have, and bed sets and drapes that I would once have been pleased to lay someone out on, plus the low prices they are charging, ruled it out.
All I can say is that some of the owners must be extremely rich and perhaps only doing it for a hobby. I don’t think more than a few can be making enough to pay the electricity bills, let alone give their guests breakfasts as well. Then, of course, since Blackpool lost the casino, all I seem to have read about in the papers is the poverty and deprivation of the indigenous population and the squalor perpetrated by a lack of will on the part of local government. Strange, you people up north, friendly and warm, but you appear not to be going anywhere. It must be your fascination with pigeons.
Anyway, I found this nice, but rather run down guest house that has been closed for the past year. The owners said that now they were getting near to retirement they had lost interest and were hoping to emigrate to Spain where they had an elderly aunt needing constant care. If I was interested, they would knock £18,000 off the asking price, provided I could complete in a fortnight.
Well, you don’t get offers like that every day, so I jumped into action. It seemed too good to miss, especially as it was also being sold with everything needed to get it up and running again almost immediately. Admittedly, the furnishings were old and the place could certainly do with a lick of paint, but I reckoned that with a good scrub through and a few minor repairs with my, to date, under-used tool set (I only ever seemed to use the screwdriver) I could be filling the place with all sorts of gorgeous and (with luck) available guests.
The solicitor has said that I can move in next week if I don’t want to make some of the searches. I find they will try anything to bump up their bill. Water survey - why? The taps and toilets all work! Electricity survey, the lights go on and off! Gas survey, the cooker works! It hasn’t got central heating so I am definitely not wasting money on a gas survey. A structural survey - what for, just to keep a surveyor in work? The building has been standing for over a hundred years, it’s not likely to fall down now. Notwithstanding all that, he then went on to suggest a damp survey. These solicitors certainly know how to bump up their charges.
All this is for the poor people who, already suffering a crippling mortgage, are then offered a home improvement loan by the Building Society. Fortunately, I can afford to pay cash, and although I may have to borrow just a few thousand for the first months whilst I build up the customers, I won’t have to pay through the nose for services I don’t need.
The cheeky beggar even asked if I had contacted the fire brigade. I said that I would leave that until I had a fire! The place has an alarm system with bells and buttons all over the place, and the owners said that it had worked perfectly for the past twenty years and, provided I did not turn the power off when going on holiday, it would even look after the place for me whilst I was away.
The solicitor then went on to suggest that I contact the environmental health department. What sort of mug is he taking me for? Contact them and down they will come looking at all my saucepans, telling me I need a Hoover or a washing machine, maybe even rubber gloves and a mask to cook a breakfast - although, come to think of it, I already have the last two at home.
Great! I have packed everything up and eagerly await next Tuesday when some of my old colleagues are going to move me using a couple of the hearses. It is, after all, only a few personal bits and pieces, and they may fit in the locker under the coffin platform - that is unless my mates are off to another funeral and already have one in the space. In that case, my stuff will have to go on top, and if they a coffin on board they can drop me off before going to the crematorium.
I can’t wait, and will let you know how my moving-in day goes next week. Until then I will quietly muse on the sort of guests I will take. Younger ones I think, definitely fit, and clean as well, but not too prissy. Hopefully lots of singles, so plenty of choice. But how much to charge them? Difficult one that! I don’t want to put off someone I fancy from coming back, but then I do have to make a living - and with only fourteen bedrooms and a small bar, I will need to fill those rooms at least four days a week.
I will decide how much as they arrive and discover what they are into. In the meantime, I am going to suss out the local gay scene. Now, if I meet someone, I can tell them that I am a Hotelier. That should help my street cred. I may even meet another gay hotelier, although I’m not sure if I want to yet - they might think I am going to take their business. I will just have to assess the situation as it arises.
February 10 th
What a day! I am absolutely fagged out! It started at five a.m. with me packing the last bits ready for the move. Fortunately, I’ve been able to leave all my furniture for the people I sold to, although they did insist I didn’t leave the ottoman behind - the Victorian child’s coffin, if you remember.
That had me praying my former colleagues, those helping me to move, could get it into the hearse along with all my other stuff. It has always proved useful, that ottoman, as somewhere to put all my porn, and a few other things I would rather no one caught sight of, so I am quite pleased to be keeping it.
They were supposed be arriving at nine but I had a phone call telling me it would be nearer ten as they were going to the crematorium first. Apparently, the mourners were happy enough to make their own way home after being dropped off at a local pub for the wake, so my colleagues were now comi