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said Betty, ‘Miss Robertson and myself have been instructed to undertake an inspection of your premises to ensure that they meet the minimum criteria for the issuing of an accommodation licence and to ascertain the appropriate number of thistles you may be awarded.’
    I assented and Miss Robertson and Mrs Robertson then worked their way through every room in the house, inspecting. Or, to be more accurate: having a right good nosey. They were very thorough. They were inside pillowcases, under mattresses, I half expected them to strip search me. And then the dog.
    ‘I’ve laid out the tea things in the lounge, ladies.’ I said, once they’d exhausted their rummaging. ‘If you’d like to follow me through.’
    ‘No thank you,’ said Betty. ‘We can’t accept refreshments of any kind.’
    She made it sound like an inducement when I had only been trying to be hospitable.
    ‘It could be interpreted as undue influence,’ she explained. ‘The committee takes a very dim view.’
    I found this suggestion of bribery offensive. I was annoyed after all the trouble I’d gone to, making such extravagant cup cakes. I’d done a double batch and had planned to give them a box each to take home. Still, they wouldn’t go to waste.
    Their resolve weakened when they actually saw my cakes. Jenny was salivating. After the sell-out success at the gala day, my homebaking had already gained a reputation in the village. I’d pushed the boat out and finished these with butter cream, fresh strawberries and chocolate shavings.
    ‘Och, I think we can make a wee exception,’ said Jenny. ‘Trixie’s cakes are mouthgasmic, Betty, you should try one. Box those up for me would you, dear?’
    As they left, with their cake boxes under their arms, I enquired as to whether Harrosie had passed muster.
    ‘Oh, we have to present our findings to the committee,’ said Betty loftily. ‘I’m afraid I can’t predict the outcome, but it is by no means certain.’
    *
    Four days later and not a dickie bird from the licensing committee. New B&Bs, restaurants and cafes were opening on a daily basis. Everyone was soaking up the rich gravy that was sloshing around the village, everyone except me. I wasn’t going to ask Jenny, I wouldn’t beg, I had my dignity.
    Day five and another van rocks up next door, this time it’s a removals van. There are three guys squashed together in the front. The driver, a fat guy, gets out, unlocks the gate in the fence and drives the van inside. That fence; not only had it destroyed my view over the loch, it also meant I couldn’t see a damn thing that was going on next door.
    An hour later the van emerged and drove off, this time with only two guys in it. One of them must be in the house. Next thing my front door was being chapped.
    ‘Hello, I’m Tony, pleased to meet you. I’m going to be staying next door, thought I’d introduce myself.’
    ‘Oh hello, I’m Trixie. Come away in, I’ll get the kettle on.’
    He was a young guy, a Glaswegian, thank you Jesus. He said he’d rented next door for the summer. I didn’t want to ask too many questions too soon, didn’t want to scare him off, I’d have all summer to interrogate him. And anyway, Bouncer, who was as starved for company as I was, got a bit excited. He started whatI sometimes called his mad half-hour: dashing from one end of the house to the other. He’d rush up to Tony, jump up to lick him, and then bound off again. It was difficult to sustain a conversation when a furry bullet blasted through the kitchen every few seconds.
    ‘Calm down, Bouncer, get a grip! Sorry about this, he likes you.’
    ‘He’s a great wee guy. He’s got plenty of energy, hasn’t he?’
    ‘Oooft,’ I agreed, ‘he could run from here to Byres Road and back again if he’d forgotten his keys.’
    Even just sharing a wee joke and the memory of Byres Road with a fellow Weegie was cheering me up. Tony laughed and said, ‘Are you from Byres Road? I thought I knew your