Chris Harvie
Chris Harvie

In a guest encounter of the embarrassing kind, hotelier Chris Harvie finds himself baring more than  his soul

Not long after I overheard a British guest remarking to her husband: “Gawd, ‘e sounds quite sophisticated to be running a ‘otel, doesn’t ‘e?”  I find myself practically starkers in front of potential guests.

I can’t say who was more embarrassed. The guests … or me.

We’re building new entrance walls in front of Rissington Inn to improve access with new signs and spotlights. Just in case anyone gets three-quarters of the way down our excellent driveway and forgets where they are.

I was about to hop into bed one night, when I remembered one of the light bulbs under the signs had gone. So, clad only in my pyjama shorts, I shot out in a light rain to change it. I was plumb in the middle of a small flowerbed, posterior aloft, when a vehicle approached.

Trying to camouflage myself as a tree fern didn’t work. Instead, an awkward conversation ensued with a middle-aged couple in a giant black shiny 4×4. Politicians, I guessed.

They wanted to know about availability. The more I urged them up to the lodge to speak to the team, the longer they lingered, and the wetter I got, entrenched in the drizzle.

Perhaps my discomfort amused them.  Eventually they drove up to reception, checked availability, promptly turned around and left again.

I can only assume they didn’t like my striped jammy attire enough to risk seeing it again at breakfast, should I have put in an appearance wearing same, which is (obviously) unlikely.