Why he defecated on the floor remains a mystery to this day.
(an excerpt)
…
The artist arrived late. His train was delayed, so Colin had to make a second trip to collect him from the station, while I entertained the other new creative residents.
When he got here, he declined the invitation to join us in the garden for a drink and an introduction to me and the two other women. It had been a long day; he was tired.
This was a first for us.
We always aim to make the arrival of our guests feel welcoming. It’s one of the most important moments of the residency. First impressions matter, and we want everyone to feel they’ve arrived somewhere homely and safe.
After all, they’ve taken the adventurous risk of travelling halfway around the world, alone, to spend two weeks in a stranger’s house for the sake of their art.
I cook a meal for us all to eat together and, over a glass of wine or three, we get to know each other a little. There’s usually plenty of chat and laughter and, by the end of the evening, we generally have a good sense of each other and the shape of the fortnight ahead.
Having this unknown guy in the house felt uncomfortable, and we were worried that the others would feel vulnerable in their beds that night with a stranger in the next room. But what could we do?
They had locks on their bedroom doors if they felt they needed them!
We were knackered too, what with having waved goodbye to three others that morning, done the changeover, the driving, cooked the meal, and welcomed the two others. We’d sleep well that night.
With one eye open.
When I went down for breakfast in the morning, he was sitting at the table in the garden.
‘I’d better go out and have a chat with him for a bit,’ I thought, ‘see if I can get a feel for his character to reassure myself that he’s alright.’
‘Morning! How did you sleep?’ I asked in my cheeriest, chipper tone.
‘Fine, thanks. Um, your dog has been to the toilet.’
‘Oh, ok, thanks for letting me know. I’ll clean it up. Where is it?’ I asked, already skipping off towards the pickle pot where we keep the dog pooh bags.
We have a large garden and it was a safe place for our two Labradors to wander freely, so we occasionally missed seeing them do their morning ablutions. Becca, the bitch, was private about doing her business and usually headed under the nearest bush (yay, no man’s land!), but Dougie (the dog) was more likely to plop his down nice and central on the grass.
‘It’s in my studio.’ the artist replied.