The idea had been a good one. Get a nice big cottage in the middle of nowhere so we can send our mate off to get married in style after a weekend of extreme sports and ever-so-clever verbal abuse.

Until we arrived at the cottage that is.

I was under the impression that pre-fabricated buildings had stopped being built after the war? (That’s WWII, not the Korean, Vietnamese, Falklands, Iraq, or Iraq II).

Clearly not.

The cottage we were housed in looked as if it had been built in a weekend as part of some reality show watched by the daytime-TV-viewing unemployed masses. I was genuinely concerned it might blow over in the first decent breeze, never mind the howling gales that are common place in this part of the world.

I read the welcome notes, and was less than impressed when I heard about the drinking water;

“We should like to make you aware that all our water comes direct from our own Mountain Spring (as is stated on our website) – i.e. we are both traditional and hip – It has passed through a filter and ultraviolet light before it gets to you and is completely pure. No chemicals have been added. We hope you enjoy it.”

This does not instill me with much confidence. Surely this is how they live in Africa? Bob Geldof is doing everything he can to eradicate this level of poverty, yet I’ve been bamboozled into paying £200 for the privilege of drinking what is essentially, pond water.

I am used to my water receiving a thorough dose of chemotherapy and going through at least 15 Londoners before it reaches me. I’m not sure that a session on a sunbed is really going to cut it.

I retire to make a cup of tea, but not before checking that we have sufficient stocks of toilet roll to deal with the dysentry I am expecting to contract in the next few days.

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