Keir Royale

They’ve multiplied.

We go away for a few weeks, leaving the lodgers (they’ve multiplied as well, we now have two ) to look after them, and when we return there isn’t just one sad creature - but at least ten probably much happier little prehistoric monsters.

I was hoping our guests would accidentally knock the container off the window sill, or overfeed them, or flush them down the loo - things which I can’t bring myself to do on purpose.

But no.

They diligently fed, aerated and probably sang to the little larvae, while simultaneouly cleaning, taking out the rubbish and generally looking after the house better than we do.

And now we’re back, we’ve messed up the hallway with sandy bags and damp camping equipment, we’ve re-claimed the sitting room with our downmarket choice of tired old TV programmes, and we’ve shoved our Marmite, peanut butter and marmalade into the cupboards in front of their truffle oil, pear vinegar and pine nuts.

They even cooked for us at the weekend - a delightful steak and beetroot starter followed by cod in a delicate lemon and lime sauce wrapped in a thin layer of pastry, rounded off with delicious Cornish organic ice cream garnished with sprigs of mint.

And then today as I was slopping great globs of spag bol onto our plates, Ben said -

“Why aren’t you cooking for them too?” (obviously the two lodgers were in the room at the time, for maximum embarrassment).

“Er, well we eat much earlier with you two, and er, well they’ve had spag bol this week already, and er…”

And if truth be told, I wouldn’t dare.

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