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So, seems my dad's got a new best friend. We don't have much privacy here as you'll already have gathered, so imagine my annoyance last night when I went into the kitchen to find my dad sitting at the table with a man whose voice I immediately recognised (even without it being filtered through the floor). I also spotted straight away by the dexterous way he was pouring my dad's touch this at your peril Jack Daniels into the glass he was holding that, unless he'd got an extra hand (which you definitely wouldn't want to show to anybody if you had one, would you?) there was nothing about either of his two visible hands that you wouldn't want not to show. Perhaps he was hyper-sensitive about the fact that he bit his nails quite badly.

This, said my dad, looking at me warningly, is Trev. Trev this is Jed. Awright Jed said Trev in a way that you could tell straight away he wasn't used to talking to kids my age. Your dad here's told me all about you.

Yeah right. That I'm mental and go to a special school and am only allowed out at weekends on the condition that I have to sleep in the attic so you needn't feel guilty about chucking me out of my room.

You'll never guess, my dad said, Trev's only a television producer - I run a production company, Trve corrected him. Off of the telly though, my dad insisted in his unreconstructed way. He's visiting St Ives to assess its potential for a new programme concept. He reckons that the family atmosphere small properties like this provide for their guests is so 1970s, but they've got real potential for upgrading as boutique B&Bs for more upmarket er - he looked to Trev who fed him the line like someone chucking a sardine to a seal - clients. Dad swallowed it headfirst. Yeah, clients, not guests, different thing altogether you see, isn't that right Trev? He glanced at Trev just to check that he'd got it right. He reminded me of one of those people you see on telly reading from a prepared statement. I've said that myself, haven't I son? my dad was saying, deviating recklessly from his script. Isn't that just what I've said before to you and mum? "Boutique B&Bs." He didn't quite hook his fingers in the air but I definitely heard him nail the quote marks around those words as he repeated them.

So the idea is, Trev chipped in. I could just about hear the page of the script turn over in Dad's head. Well yeah, that's the thing you see son, Trev here reckons that his production company'll put up the money for us to do this place up, gut it from the inside out, turn it into a boutique B&Bs, and it's all on the telly, a series like. It's just what he's looking for! What do you reckon to that then, eh? You know, one of those 'how we did up a property' programmes. Then to tie in with the programme, Trev's got the press contacts, journos from the travel pages, Sunday supplement features, the works. We're lucky Trev and his wife found us, they were going to stay at Porthminster while they looked round, but it was full and you'll never guess, someone at the hotel, someone actually at Porthminster Hotel, recommended they should try us. Trev nodded at me. That's right, he said, well, they said, we don't know if they'll have any vacancies, but you should try there, it's one of the best three B&Bs in town.

I wondered which the other two of this dubious trinity were, and whether Trev and his wife had tried them first before settling for us. See son, my dad said, full of himself, what I have always said to you, treat your guests well and the word gets around. One of the best three B&Bs in town. You can't buy that sort of recommendation.

I wanted to say if our place was so good why would Trev (or my dad come to that) think it would be improved by being converted into an upmarket boutique B&B. Our guests stayed with us because we were cheap and right by the harbour and near to a lot of frankly much better B&Bs that invariably filled up before we did. To me, we are this resort's B&B of last resort.