First thing in the morning, that’s the hardest time. Eric Idle told me this. A wise man, is Eric. Actor, comedian, songwriter, musician, screenwriter and playwright and, when it comes to mornings, a man of wisdom.
I interviewed him about his new book, which is a love letter to his house in Provence. He bought it more than half a century ago, before he hit the big time. It didn’t cost him much, because it was tiny, tumbledown and without water or electricity. Slowly, as the money came in from this job or that, he made improvements. By hook or by crook, the water and electricity started to flow, and with them a steady stream of guests coming to stay. These weren’t just any old guests: they were superstars, among them David Bowie, Art Garfunkel, Penny Marshall, Lauren Hutton, Brian Cox (the professor and the actor too, I think, although possibly not at the same time), Paul Simon, Carrie Fisher, Robin Williams and George Harrison. Also Michael Palin and assorted Pythons; Ronnie Wood and assorted Stones. And so on. There are photos of Wood sitting on the floor strumming his guitar; Bowie mooning about clad only in short shorts. Quite something, but all I could think about was how tiring it must have been to have so many guests turning up all the time. Let’s be honest: guests are a bit of an effort. A-lister or Joe Bloggs, a guest’s a guest.
This isn’t an issue raised in the book, which I should say is a moving, elegiac affair, and not just a torrent of name-drops as I’ve rather implied. But the guest question nagged away at me until I plucked up the courage to interrogate Mr Idle on the matter. Who was the best guest? Who was the worst? And what did he do if they were getting on his wick? After all, since they’d gone all that way, he could hardly turf them out.
Sensibly, Eric wouldn’t be drawn on any of these questions, although much as he plainly loved them being there, he did tacitly admit that having guests in your space – even guests of this calibre – does have its challenges, and that it’s the mornings that are hardest.
He’s dead right. It doesn’t matter who it is emerging blearily from the spare room. Be it Bowie, Fisher or an old schoolfriend, those first moments of the day are tricky. When you’re a kid, a teenager, a student, sleepovers happen all the time, and they’re kind of normal, so you know the drill. But as you get older, they happen less and less. I have close friends who I’ve known since primary school, but I can’t remember the last time we had a sleepover – a word we obviously no longer use now we’re middle-aged. However well you know your guest – or, in Eric’s case, however well the world knows your guest – you’re unlikely to have spent much time with them straight after they’ve got out of bed. And in this phase of the day, we’re all different animals.
Morning. Oh, hi. Morning. What’s for breakfast? Awkwardness, that’s what’s for breakfast. Tea? Coffee? Toast? Can I get you an, erm, egg? Cereal? Oh, right, granola. I’ll have a look. Skimmed? No, sorry, no skimmed. Decaf? Sorry, no. Earl Grey? Hang on, I’ll check. Er, no, sorry. Silences of various lengths punctuate what passes for conversation. Sleep OK? Good. Silence. Clink of cutlery. Slurp of tea. Silence. An embarrassed request. What? No toilet paper in the loo? How embarrassing! So sorry. I’ve left some on the stairs. Then there’s another silence while whoever it was who lacked the toilet paper waits for a little time to pass before sloping off for a poo. Awkward, awkward, awkward.
All are welcome at mine, but don’t mind me if I slip out and take the dog for a walk first thing, leaving you enough time to sort yourselves out.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
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