foolish decision came back to haunt me. Halfway through the Kings of Leon set, I started to sweat. I became convinced there was a farmer hiding in the airing cupboard ready to rape me with a pitch fork. There was a tip-tap at the back door. I grabbed a kitchen knife and peered out of the window. It was the esteemed 75-year-old writer my employers had sent to share the cottage with me. "Hallo! I'm not on drugs you know!" I said as I let him in with relief. He eyed me suspiciously while I tried to conceal the knife in the pocket of my jim-jams. Rock'n'roll is hell.