30October2025
Dear Diary,
Lets crash at yours for a while; we cant afford a place of our own! thats what my old friend Margaret told me just this morning. Im a lively woman, even at sixtyfive, and I still manage to pop up at fairs, museums and seaside towns, shaking hands with strangers and catching up with old acquaintances. When I think back to my younger days, a smile and a sigh come together. Back then holidays were cheap enough to whisk us off to the coast, pitch a tent in the Lake District, or float down the Thames on a leisurely cruise all for a few quid.
Those carefree times belong to the past now.
Ive always loved meeting people on Brighton beach, in a West End theatre, at the local market. Some of those friendships have lasted decades. One summer, while staying at a guesthouse in Cornwall, I met a woman called Sarah Whitfield. We spent the holidays together and, when the season ended, we promised to keep in touch. Over the years we exchanged Christmas cards and occasional letters.
Then, out of the blue, a handwritten note arrived, unsigned, that read: A train will arrive at three a.m.; meet me at the station. I had no idea who could have sent it. The next night, at four, a knock sounded at our front door. When I opened it, I stared in disbelief. There stood Sarah, two teenage girls, an elderly lady and a gentleman, all lugging a mountain of suitcases. My husband and I were stunned, but we invited the unexpected guests inside. Sarah blurted, Why didnt you leave after my note? I told you a cab would cost a fortune! I stammered, I didnt know who sent it. She replied, I had your address, dear. Here I am. She added, I thought wed just write letters, thats all!
Sarah then explained that one of the girls had just finished school and was headed off to university. The rest of the family had travelled to support her.
Well stay with you! We cant afford a flat, and youre close to the city centre! they declared.
I was flabbergasted. We werent even related. Yet I felt obliged to feed them three meals a day. They brought over some groceries but never cooked themselves, leaving me to manage everything.
After three days I asked Sarah and her kin to find somewhere else to stay. A fullblown scandal erupted. Sarah started smashing crockery and shrieking hysterically. I was taken aback by her outburst. When they finally left, they had pilfered my bathrobe, a few towels and, miraculously, a large pot of cabbage stew. I still cant fathom how they carted it off; the pot simply vanished.
Our friendship ended there, thank heavens. I havent heard a word from Sarah since, nor seen her face. Now Im far more cautious when I let new people into my home.
