Facing every man's scariest nightmare
Following an enjoyable and largely profitable summer, I am now in the midst of an intensive and gruelling training course for Australia.
No, not - as many might think - for the athletic heights of the Sydney Olympics, but for the fortnight in mid-November when Helen leaves me to run the pub while she jets off on an errand of mercy to accompany my mother, visiting her relatives on the other side of the world.
Not that this will be a holiday, I am repeatedly informed, it is a sacrifice. But having seen photographs of the house fronting a long stretch of fine golden sand, overlooking an unbelievably blue lagoon, I have to wonder.
The obvious downside to this selfless gesture is that I get to do the plethora of tasks usually undertaken by Helen, and to learn a host of new skills if I am to survive alone.
I should manage to feed myself, and it is unlikely that the dogs will allow me to forget to feed them, but some other jobs may prove more difficult. I will have to clean the pub and toilets, and master the Hoover, but these are jobs that I have some experience of.
One task does, however, fill me with dread - using the washing machine. As a student, many years ago, everything simply went in at one of two temperatures and came out clean, although not necessarily the colour it had been.
Apparently, this is no longer an option. Modern washing machines have a multitude of buttons and knobs, and the prospect of coming to terms with a machine capable of eating my socks and turning aprons into a Gordian knot of tangled cloth is terrifying.
Somehow, this reminds me of my current embarrassment at the hands of the education system. One of our casual kitchen staff, having passed all of his GCSE exams, albeit with grades that seem to stretch the limits of our alphabet, has decided that he would like to train as a chef.
He has the interest, the abilities and the enthusiasm, so I said that I would try to find him a suitable one-day college place. Several phone calls later, I was totally confused by the range of options available and the need to find a "training service provider" (ie, college).
All was eventually clarified by a very nice man at Darlington College and, with luck, Colin will be able to take up a place there soon.
IAN VIPOND is chef-patron of the New Inn, a free house pub in Hunton on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales
Next diary from Ian Vipond: 26 October
