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the young. They love their new
school, made friends quickly and easily, and the village is a
delight, especially their own playground right opposite our
house where they and their friends congregate after school to
play. It hasn't been so easy for us.
    We knew from the first day that things weren't going to be
as rosy as we'd hoped, when we realized that the kitchen was
in too sorry a state to patch up and would have to be completely
redone. The cost was way above any of our estimates, so we
had to plunge straight into our new business venture, the paint-your-own-pottery
scheme, before we had intended.
    It was obvious within weeks that the business wasn't going
to work, that it was a daft idea for Cornwall. It was the children
of the affluent middle classes, usually living in cities, who were
clamouring for this kind of entertainment and artistic
endeavour and a disaster for Cornwall, one of the poorest
counties in England in that wages are lower here than anywhere
else. We learned soon enough that Cornish parents were in
general too strapped for cash to spend on such an extravagance
as painting your own pottery. Especially as, ironically, there are
probably more genuine potters in the county per head of
population than anywhere else in England. And who needs to
find entertainment for their kids when there's the sea and the
countryside?
    Despite all our intricate business plans, we'd not thought of
these basic considerations. There was nothing for it but to
drop our initial plan at once, before we plunged deeper into
debt. Taking stock of our finances one evening, we were
appalled to see how quickly our savings were draining away.
We needed an income badly. The house was, as houses do,
costing far more than we'd allotted for it to renovate, not to
mention to buy in the first place. Then a plumber doing routine
fixtures found the whole system corroded and needing
replacement. Something similar happened when the electrician
arrived for some minor work and we had to shut the power
off at once as the wires hidden behind walls had been gnawed
at by generations of mice. It was a wonder we hadn't been
burned in our beds.
    And so we started pouring over the local newspapers, looking
at job adverts. At first we were optimistic because we were
willing to take on anything reasonable. But then, after applying
for quite a few – receptionist, secretary, taxi driver and supermarket
assistant manager were just a handful – we discovered
that each job had dozens of applicants (unemployment is high
in Cornwall and jobs scarce) and we were overqualified for
nearly every job we applied for.
    After this unexpected blow, we sat down again to try to
think of something – anything – we could do to bring in an
income. Luckily, Ben had a qualification we hadn't yet tried to
make money from, something that we'd hoped to use in the
future. Now, however, was the time. We were desperate.
    Unlike me, Ben had completed the aromatherapy course
that began the day we met and he had a valid massage diploma.
He could offer his services not to the locals, most of whom
could not afford them, but to the hotels that catered for the
better-off visitors to the area.
    The prime hotel nearby is the world famous Roswinnick,
overlooking the estuary and sea in a prime spot in St Geraint.
For several years now, the very rich and often the very famous
find their way here for a weekend or week. Rock stars mix
with royalty and wealthy Russian businessmen nod to their
British counterparts in the exquisite dining room over the
breakfast tables. They would be the perfect kind of customer,
prepared to spend an enormous chunk of money to relax, destress
and detox while enjoying stunning views and luxurious
surroundings. So after an interview with the hotel manager
(and a freebie massage for him), aromatherapy massage was
added to the hotel's list of available services and Ben got his
first call a week or so later.
    I met him at the door when he came home, practically
knocking