Chapter Four

My wife wanted to write my column this week. I wouldn’t let her.

She wanted to tell about our trip to Mousehole and how we were refused entrance by a restaurant which clearly advertised itself as being “Open,” and yet told us that it had closed for the season.  What can you expect from an establishment whose signs say that dogs are welcome, but children must be kept on leashes? Imagine! 

On the other hand, she thought she would spend a little time writing about the kindness of the people we have met here, who have brought us cooked meals to our home, who have cooked us meals in our home, and who have invited us for cooked meals in their homes. One such woman we met at the Cornwall Council offices (and I am glad we did; she is an excellent chef and bright light). She has since dropped in on us three times with mouth-watering dinners! We have yet to return the favor. A well-known painter and her charming husband whom I met at the St. Ives School of Painting Cabaret Night last month, invited us to their home for a wonderful, dreamy, unforgettable afternoon feast with their friends and family. And, would you believe, we were invited to the very American holiday of Thanksgiving Dinner by complete strangers who had read this column two weeks ago?

I’m sure she would have written a very nice column, possibly the most amusing one yet, but this is not why I refused her. I refused her because artists are territorial, like dogs. It’s my column. Mine. I’ll bite anyone who touches it. No, what I am going to write about this week is…heck! Somehow my wife always gets her way.

To be continued.