You don’t want to mess with Belle at the moment.
95% of the time she is a sweet and thoughtful girl, always happy to lend a hand, caring and kind. Sometimes though, overcome by the pubescent hormones coursing through her veins, she becomes a beast. Bee and I cower in her presence. She almost seems to roar.
The beast was unleashed recently when we went to Northern Ireland and was sparked by mediocre service in the Premier Inn. If there is anything that winds Belle up like nothing else it is shoddy service. Our Butlins break for example was blighted for her by the cutlery, which didn’t live up to her high expectations of cleanliness, being covered, as she put it, in ‘previous food’.
Premier Inn got off to a bad start with Belle by bringing her orange squash with her dinner rather than the fresh orange juice she had requested.
“Do they not know the difference?” She asked, appalled. “This is clearly not freshly squeezed.”
She was also not convinced that her pizza had the double helping of mozzarella she had specifically asked for. At breakfast the next morning things only got worse.
“Well that took longer than it should have done,” she spat, Victor Meldrew style. She banged her plate down onto the table. It held one hash brown and three slices of bacon.
“All I wanted to do was get some bacon. I queued for a plate, let someone into the queue before me, and then when I reached over for the bacon the chef told me off! ‘There is a queue you know’ he told me.” She was positively steaming.
I sat quietly eating my toast.
“I’d get some juice,” she snarled, lip curling, “but it’s probably squash.”
I made sure that Belle didn’t mind me writing about this so that she wouldn’t shout at me.