The Enchanted Manor, which specialises in magical, romantic breaks.
THE VIEW FROM HERE ARE you finding life unpleasant at the moment? It’s not surprising, considering all the horrid things which keep popping up.
So much beastliness to contend with, like the rain, and those dreadful party conferences, Ed Miliband’s weird voice, Michael Gove’s weird everything, idiots on Facebook, tweeters, twitterers, people who spend their time in meetings talking jargon-ridden tosh, plus there’s something disgusting on the telly called Embarrassing Bodies.
As if we need a special programme to explore this subject. Our own mirrors supply all the humiliation we require or, failing that, there’s always Eric Pickles on the Tory conference platform in Birmingham next week.
Things couldn’t get any more depressing, could they? Oh, wait, what’s this? Jimmy Savile? Surely not. I don’t care if they’re only allegations, it really is the last straw. What with Sir Jimmy (goodness me, what must the Queen think of all this?) being both dead and in headlines with under-age girls, we really have plumbed the depths of squalid despondency.
Is there anything we can do? Actually, there is. Come, let me take you by the hand and lead you to the Enchanted Manor in Niton, where you can banish all thoughts of Ed Miliband’s adenoids and unsavoury rumours about Jimmy Savile, where happiness is just a sprinkle of fairy dust away, and nobody has embarrassing bodies because everything is just heart-shaped magic.
My own recent visit to the Enchanted Manor has left me utterly starry-eyed. Indeed, still surrounded by its twinkletoes aura, I am typing this through a haze of spun sugar and sparkly gossamer, my fingertips skipping across the keys like tiny elfin dancers.
You see? The effect is quite miraculous. I don’t know how long it will last but if you want to try the experience, do as I did and waft into the wonderland of Ric and Maggie Hilton’s astonishing hotel.
I visited the Hiltons after they had appeared on Rip Off Britain, having been dealt a cruel blow by a rogue trader who took thousands of pounds off them but failed to deliver the luxurious car they had ordered to use at the nuptials which are a core part of the delicious way of life at the Enchanted Manor Hotel.
I don’t know how anyone could rip off Ric and Maggie. It would be like kicking Tinkerbell in the teeth. Let’s boo the wicked rogue trader! Where is he, anyway? On the naughty step, that’s where, banished forever from the Enchanted Manor.
And quite right, too. We only want nice people in this fabulous establishment, because it’s all tinselly and flowery-bowery, and there are coloured pebbles scattered everywhere and wafty music and, ooh, clap your hands, Maggie has made me a heart-shaped scone, served with a heart-shaped dish of jam and cream.
I love it. In fact, I love everything at the Enchanted Manor. It’s like being in a woodland pool of fairy-light candyfloss, eating heart-shaped scones while an angel plays the harp and weensy mermaids perch on your shoulder. I wish I could have stayed the night. Maggie does heart-shaped sausages for breakfast. I think that’s lovely. Don’t you think that’s lovely?
There are several people I should like to send to the Enchanted Manor. The council, for instance. They could have an away day there, weaving daisy chains and playing Hunt the Thimble. It would make them better people.
I’m definitely a better person for visiting the Enchanted Manor. I hope you can tell. But now I must write about the Church of England. Oh dear, that’s done it. Spell broken. But it was nice while it lasted.
Some aisles prove more tempting than others
OK, I’m back now. No more elfin fingers, just a load of old pumpkins. My other visit this week was in response to an invitation for "Back to Church Sunday", otherwise known as "Bring a Heathen to Church Day".
I duly went along, was given a very nice welcome, and treated to various things intended to inspire me to embrace the Church of England once more.
The readings included a passage suggesting transgressors should have their feet and hands cut off and their eyes plucked out, which was cheery, an unlikely story about a three-month drought being instantly granted after Elias prayed for no rain, and a vicar who trotted out that old statistic about how more people attend church than go to football matches.
I never know why this should be a reason for the church giving itself a pat on the back. With a muster of more than 16,000 churches and 42 cathedrals, it would be a jolly poor show if the C of E couldn’t outdo the Football League.
Now, if there were more people in church aisles than shopping aisles on a Sunday, I might really be impressed. But I’m not holding my breath.