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“Oh, look at this one, Basil,” Sybil Fawlty said. She was sitting on the sofa in their cozy Cambridge townhome. Adverts from a wide array of real estate agencies littered the coffee table in front of her. “It’s in Southwold. Twenty-five rooms. Scenic view of the sea.” “Probably infested with middle-class holiday-goers, sand and rocks from the beaches brought in like so much rubbish, water stains on the wooden floorboards, insurance costs for the owners a fortune the likes of which even King Louis hadn't seen,” Basil Fawlty remarked off-handedly, leafing through his London Times while sitting in his favourite lounger. “If you ask me, my brother’s place in the Cotswolds is in finer shape.”“You mean your brother, the unemployed drunk who lives under the bridge? Whose tavern bill we have to pay each month?” Sybil gave a light chuckle. “Nonsense. Says it has one owner, 92, who has no heirs to leave it to. Wants to sell it. He says it’s ‘a quaint getaway on the Suffolk Coast.’” “Get away from what, I shouldn’t wonder?” Basil said to himself. “Your sister and mother? Hardly! Noses like a warthog. Snooping here and there. No doubt they’d be permanent residents of the place, like rabies-infected mice on holiday during the Bubonic Plague.” Sybil seemed not to hear him. She placed the advert to one side, into her "to consider" pile. The rejection pile to the opposite side was nearly overflowing. “Ah…Here’s another one in America. You’ve always wanted to go to America, Basil. Says it's in Fairvale...wherever that is.”Basil put down his paper and walked toward Sybil to look at the advert. His eyes glanced at the rejection pile making a mess in the otherwise immaculate room. Sybil showed him the picture. “Rather small from the looks of it,” he said. Basil, unimpressed, went back to his lounger. “Does it say how many rooms?” “No. Owned by a woman and her son, though, it says. Seems quaint enough for your tastes, hm? Basil?”“Seems inviting,” Basil said without feeling. "But out in the middle of nowhere? Let's hope there's a local grocer nearby. And decent plumbing. I don't fancy customers dropping their trousers in an outhouse in the middle of winter only to have them asking me to rescue them from a pack of coyotes prowling near the door. I won't do it."“Of course, if it’s a hotel in America, it had better have decent plumbing, Basil. I mean, it is the 1960s. Baths, showers, sink, toilet.""Yes, I suppose you’d have to be a psycho not to have running water for the showers. Does it have good plumbing, dear?” Basil asked half-heartedly, going back to his paper.“Says here it also has a view—but doesn’t say of what. Oh, here it is… Yes. Working showers and running water in every room.”“Might be worth a look,” Basil remarked. “’Course I couldn’t come with you, could I? You’d prefer to make the decision by yourself. In a lonely room. Never knowing who might barge in with a …”“And here’s one in Colorado, near Denver it says. My, but it’s huge! Sprawling! Hundreds of rooms. A grand kitchen and fancy trimmings. I’m not sure we could keep it up without a lot of help—and the cost of it all! Of course, grandfather did say I could use the funds to purchase a property anywhere in the world. Though it says the hotel closes during the winter season. I wonder why?”“How much did your grandfather leave you when he died, the old rotter?”“A million pounds.”Basil sat bolt upright in his lounger, crumpling his newspaper in the process. “A millio…A mi…” He caught his tongue with his fingers, then tried again. “A million pounds?” he squeaked. “That’s right.” Basil's eyes grew wide. “Sybil, darling. With that kind of money, you could buy your own chain of hotels. A small indebted country! You could have your own standing army, Westminster Cathedral, and Buckingham Palace! For God’s sake, even the Pope doesn’t have a million pounds that are legitimately his!" Basil paused barely long enough to catch his breath. "Perhaps the Vatican is for sale?”“Don’t be silly, Basil. The Pope would never agree to my terms.”“Don’t count on it,” Basil said under his breath. “What did you say, dear?”“Oh, nothing. Of course, you could use the money as an investment and triple…quadruple?…your money and buy, oh, what’s that luxury hostel in Bavaria? You know the one with the towers and pointy tops?”“Neuschwanstein?” “That’s it. The one built by the Mad Hatter...”“Mad King Ludwig…” Sybil corrected.“Yes, yes… Maybe that one is for sale?” Basil pointed to the pile of adverts still needing attention. Sybil smirked and looked up from her adverts. “It’s a castle, Basil. Besides, your German isn’t very good, and the upkeep would be much too costly.”“Then, how about that gaudy looking one in Barcelona that seems to be all the rage?”“La Sagrada Familia?”“Yes, the one that looks like a glorified icing decoration at Christmas. That’s sure to draw the holiday crowd in. I hear things in Barcelona are reasonably inexpensive; we'd have to do something about that. Shouldn’t be too much trouble to bring some class to the Spaniels.”"Spaniards, Basil. They're not dogs.""I'm not saying they are. Maybe I'll spend a weekend there. Learn to speak the language better."“I’m not sure my grandfather would approve of converting a church into a hotel, Basil.”“Probably not,” Basil agreed, under his breath. “Lord knows the priests already do that with people sleeping in the pews, as it is. At least this way we’d be making some money bringing in better clientele than the usual vagrants.”“Besides, Basil, my heart is set on owning an already established hotel, not a castle or church,” Sybil said. “Running that kind of establishment would make more money and be a better investment in the long run. Something that the locals and seasonal vacationers can enjoy.”Basil, unconvinced, went back to burying his nose in the London Times. “Whatever you say, dear. Though if you’re asking me, the money would be better placed on Daisy Reins. If you want a sure thing.”“Daisy who?” Sybil asked. “Not one of your new girlfriends, I hope.”Basil looked up at her, nonplussed. “Dear...Daisy Reins is a horse, for your information.”“Don’t tell her that,” Sybil said under her breath.“...And she’s predicted to win this year’s stakes at the derby. A thousand pounds down would bring in millions more. A million pounds down...Think of it!” Basil looked over at Sybil hopefully.“Forget it, Basil. You are not getting a penny of my father’s money for your silly jockey racing schemes.” Basil buried his face in the newspaper once again. Sybil continued perusing the adverts on the table. “Here’s another one, Basil. In Torquay.”Basil closed his newspaper with a caustic snap. “Are you bloody serious?!” Basil almost shouted. “I mean...I can tolerate America and your European choices. They’re not British, but at least there’s a chance they’ll speak the Queen’s English. And now you want to off and buy a hotel in Turkey?! I suppose you’ll have me learning how to speak Arabic with some Bedouin, dressing me in a fez, sending in belly-dancing old ladies on holiday with camphor-smelling wigs as if I’m some sheik, then setting me adrift on the Black Sea in some glorified fishing boat, and calling me...”“I might. If I were wanting to buy a hotel in Turkey. But this is in Torquay. On the English Riviera. Near Exeter. Notice the emphasis. Tor-QUAY. Though now that you mention it, if I see a hotel in Turkey I’ll be sure to let you know...especially if there’s a harem of belly-dancing old ladies involved.”“Ah!” Basil said, calming only slightly in realization. “And what is so great about Torquay?""Agatha Christie, for one. Says here it was her birthplace. And it says here that King George V visited during World War I."Basil's demeanor began to change. The birthplace of literary figures and connections to royalty could be a huge selling point for a hotel. This place in Torquay might just be the one to bring the good old-fashioned upper classes in to make him—and Sybil—some solid cash. His Cambridge bookie would be impressed, no doubt. "So you saw a hotel for sale in Tor-QUAY. On the English Riviera, you say? Agatha Christie's birthplace? A connection to King George V? Why look further?”“I'm not quite sold just yet.""Why not? High-class couples out for a romantic getaway with wine and champagne flowing like the Thames.""Have you seen the picture? The place looks a wreck.""But imagine lords and ladies walking through the halls night and day, taking in the sights. "There's a front wall that's crumbled and needs repair." "Just think, Sybil. With clients like these, it's us who'll be living like kings... and queens.” Basil looked at Sybil hopefully, now more earnestly. "I'm more interested in the families and newlyweds, Basil. Couples on holiday. A place to just relax and enjoy the countryside." “Right,’ Basil said. “Not interested in the rich and important, high-class sort that has money and connections, then? Not interested in financing all those maintainance projects..."“No," Sybil said. "Not at the expense of the working classes who also deserve a holiday.""Good luck managing a hotel like that! You'll have wasted your inheritance, and for what?" "So you think you can manage it better?" Sybil’s question bordered on a threat. “I can...and will..manage it,” Basil said with passion. “Better than you, Sybil. Better by a thousand, mark my words!”“It’s settled then,” Sybil said. “We’ll go to Torquay. I’ll let you manage the day-to-day, hire the help, and bring in the customers. I'll take care of the finances. I trust you can please our customers enough to make sure we make...not lose…money?”Basil looked offended. “You don’t trust me, do you?”“Not a tuppence.”“I’ll show you, Sybil!” Basil said, standing up, fists forming a ball. “I’ll show you! This hotel of yours will bring in only the best and finest boarders, the most competent help, and will be run with military efficiency.” As soon as Basil said this, fists relaxing, he wondered under his breath, “Now, how in the nine hells am I going to achieve that?”