The Fawlty Towers bit

We didn't intend Bloomfield House to be unduly eccentric but there was a certain inevitability about it. We'd never been hoteliers before, when we moved in around a year-and-a-half ago on a Friday evening. The following day we were fully booked. The entire contents of our previous home - which were voluminous, as it was a big old five-storey Bath town house - plus the children and the animals, were packed into our private quarters, within the hotel. Despite spacious rooms and high ceilings, there were boxes, gazillions of them, stacked in almost every cubic inch of our space. We had to climb mountains of furniture and squeeze oúrselves along the bedroom ceiling to find our way downstairs. The guest areas, however, were immaculate. Something had to give. This was a top-of-the-range, five-diamond guest house, as established by the previous owners. Actually, the guests never had any idea we were beginners. A trained chef and old friend of the family arrived early on Sunday morning and we, after almost no sleep at all, served delicious farmers' market organic full English breakfasts to an amazingly enthusiastic clientele.

Then the hotel inspector arrived to confirm, or withdraw, our five diamond status and, as he was sat in the dining room, discussing the finer points of top quality hotel service with Kari, the puppy crept under the inspector's chair and deposited an odoriferous little gift on the carpet...