B & B Stay Turns Sour After Host Explains How to Sit in a Chair

 Report and Statement by B & B Guests

Jupiter Cove B & B

Suite // 1 Bed // 1 Bath


“….We’ve learned an important lesson after staying for the first time at a B&B. Expecting it to be like a hotel except a little homier, we discovered that we had paid to spend a weekend with a freak.

Along with our stay came a long list of rules that began with zero-tolerance for indoor footwear, followed by escalating prohibitions against the use of televisions, telephones, appliances large and small, running water, the toilet, the closet door (the closet itself was A-okay if you could somehow gain access to it), and of course there was a detailed list of no-nos associated with sitting in her easy chair.

For example, we might lean so far back that we’d shoulder roll out of it onto the hard linoleum (possibly leaving an unsightly mark and all that blood, the cleaning fee for which she would have to charge our credit card), I might wreck the mechanism (requiring expensive repair, the fee for which, obviously, she would have to charge our credit card), or, worst of all, I could carelessly lean too far back and mark up the wall, repainted only a year ago (the fee for which… blah de blah….) This last apparently urgent concern was imparted to me by hair-raising whisper right in the ear, raspy and damp, close enough that I felt her old cracked tongue on my skin. I juddered in revulsion and nearly wet her precious Lay-Z-Boy (the cleaning fee for which would be, well…. astronomical).

She never stopped yammering, she didn’t take hints. Stripping down stark naked in front of her as I attempted to get ready for our evening’s event appeared to have no effect. She dismissively said, ‘Oh I’ve seen everything’. She then went on, unbidden, to describe nearly every single one of them.

She mentioned her long-dead brother’s cable-knit Cardigan and a type of bolt you can’t buy in Hardware stores in North America. That naturally led her to the German lady next door who was recently in a music festival. You know, she never knew a thing about guitar but she just picked it up easy as you please! By EAR. Who picks up music by ear? Crazy!

I stayed mum about cavemen, inventors of music, who definitely didn’t learn to read sheet music. She continued….She has a daughter you know, from a previous marriage…He was an engineer. Stuttgart, as I recall…Tall guy. Ooops, be careful. Don’t scrape the cabinet. They didn’t like the airline food on the flight to Canada and I told them you could order in advance. I like the vegetarian option and my husband, God rest his soul, preferred chicken but he died. So odd, I discovered him not breathing, holding his hands over his ears…

She pivoted to rocks, minerals and the ingredients of her Auntie’s bisque recipe and rambled on at uttermost length about the clouds in the sky, aspirins, the origin of Parcheesi, head table centerpieces, asphalt shingles, Rosicrucian ciphers, a blind hiker, left handed people, acid free paper, paper free acid, gout, and then lit up quite suddenly about drinking glasses. How is it possible that we wanted wine glasses for our beer? Are you serious? Where are you from? No, honestly, where? Show me on a map.

Gnat-like, she flitted. Hey, I know the woman who invented pie! Well that’s what she claimed, and I believed her because she knew a ton about pie. I like pie. She lived up north by you. But wine glasses for beer? Highly irregular, you know. Most people want beer glasses for beer. But there was one lady last year who drank out of her own cup. Her own cup! Can you imagine that? She traveled with her own cup. It was chipped. And old. But she kept it right in her purse, which looked like a pretty expensive one for someone who traveled with her own cup. Folks are really weird. Oh, don’t set that there, it’ll leave a mark…

Nutty Hostess
Hovering, hovering…

We looked on saucer eyed as our gibbering hostess wittered aimlessly with another guest who had appeared at the door of our suite to speak with her; she invited him right in!

We hastily departed for our event but could find no key to lock our suite and were none too thrilled at the thought of speaking again with that walking wind tunnel. We snuck-out having left everything wide open to thieves and snoops, positive that full-on robbery and ransacking, maybe even pillaging by poxy Ostrogoths, was preferable to yet more face time with her. 

Hours later we returned, crept in, wincing as the door squeaked, only to find her sitting on our bed, her fat arse on my pillow, crescent of perspiration discolouring her armpits, flapping her bingo wings as if to cool her sweatiest regions and offering intricate instructions on how to lie down for maximum comfort while causing minimal wrinkling.

In her daily summation, she went over breakfast timings with painful clarity, mentioned how popular her eggs were with one guest last year who might have been from New Brunswick or Braunschewieg but we couldn’t be sure and didn’t dare ask. Finally, mercifully, she sniffed an admonishment to keep the noise down. Given that we were utterly speechless the warning seemed redundant.

Long live hotels…”

Identity withheld by request. 


B&B Fleeing


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