A village without a shop and a cottage without water leaves Bate reeling

I shan't go into too many details but suffice to say I have retrieved all parenting responsibilities back from the dog (who, frankly is incapable).

There have been NO film nights at Sky's, Atom's, Kestrel's or Zippy's houses (real names) NO trips to Bournemouth and ALL small gatherings at Chez Bate or anywhere else for that matter, have been forbidden - possibly as a permanent measure.

The Teen has been forced to make do with the stable yard, me and the dog for company.

However by Wednesday, I decided that the Teen needed a break from house arrest and come Friday night I fled, with the Teen in tow, to spend some days in Dorset.

"You agreed I could have a party tomorrow Mum. Now I have to tell everyone it's cancelled because I am going to the Swannery with my Mum."

"You know exactly why there is no party. Your real friends will understand. Now pack your bag and take sensible walking boots. And anyway you like Abbotsbury. We can go to the subtropical gardens too."

"My friends will be appalled."

I thought about camping, briefly, but after my last terrible camping experience (actually ALL my camping experiences are terrible) I remembered the promise I made to myself two years ago, that I would ONLY sleep under canvas if hit by a humanitarian disaster (the only exception being yurts or tepees with stoves, electricity and king size feather beds).

So we headed for a tiny cottage in the middle of Portesham. I felt like a massive weight had been lifted as we drifted into this sleepy village where the only noise came from a pair of wrestling jackdaws.

The Teen seemed happy, despite being without a phone a million miles away from civilisation - no, Weymouth does not count - and we sat in the garden behind a steep green hill and flower meadow, sipping tea and being nice to each other.

Perfect.

We watched the sun set and then snuggled up and watched a movie and fell asleep in the silent, pitched black darkness.

The next morning, I hunted high and low to find tea and washing up liquid. All I could find were six bottles of Cillit Bang among rolls of string, a couple of BIC pens, a pack of cards and one saucepan.

I ventured out, stumbling upon a duck pond, two churches, one pub and several people setting up a flower show, but there was no shop. The nearest was apparently four miles away. I traipsed back to the house to rouse the Teen, who was in the bath (there was no shower).

"Mum, the water's freezing. There is no hot water."

I flicked through the information to locate an immersion switch, but nothing. The practicals of the trip weren't going so well and I spent the next hour boiling kettles and avoiding first degree burns to climb the narrow steep staircase. It was like living in the dark ages. Bah.

That evening after a brilliant day spent exploring, we came upon a group of hippies near the village doling out head massages.

Frankly all six of them would have benefited from exposure to a bar of Imperial Leather. They may have thought so too if they could locate a shop.

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