The local council treated me like a criminal when I set up a small business

Telegraph

26-07-2025

Visits from His, and previously Her, Majesty's Constabulary have, thankfully, been thin on the ground. My crimes more usually, and often so thoughtfully pointed out by your good selves in the comments section, being more of grammar. So my heart leaps for a second if the boys, or indeed, girls in blue show up.
There's a flutter of a butterfly in my tummy and I wonder what dastardly ancient deed, long forgotten, is at last catching up with me. The most recent visit being last year when a couple of chaps in uniform drove up to the house, knocked on the door and reported a call from two small boys who had dialled 999 and reported: 'We're starving.'
I had been washing up breakfast at the time so was unaware of their antics until The Fuzz turned up on the doorstep. While I could appreciate the irony of a food critic filling his own selfish gob to the detriment of others, we all agreed that it was a rather fine practical joke and no further false claims have ensued.
The other time the force showed up was when I had the temerity to use our cow shed, a large structure built in the 1980s, to entertain locals at what I call Sitwell Supper Club. The concept is simple: I employ the services of a great chef (using my contacts in the business gathered over many years as a food writer), folks buy tickets and are given dinner along one long and glorious table that seats some 70 people.
The idea took hold more than four years ago when we moved to a lovely patch of rural Somerset, off the rolling wilds of Exmoor. I had run such events at our old home in Northamptonshire and as the new place came with an empty old shed, I sourced some steel tables, gathered some grills, popped in a sink, bought a simple loo block – Sitwell's Compostable Lavatorial Facility – and rustled up a few chefs (the likes of Adam Handling, Atul Kochhar, Anna Haugh, Rowley Leigh and Cyrus Todiwala). Then I sold tickets, swept the floor, laid the tables and welcomed in the locals. I also sold them wine using my alcohol licence.
Naively, I thought this was all fine and dandy. The locals were happy, when they weren't cold, I employed a local team on service and urged my chefs to purchase local produce. All went well until I had an email from the police in summer 2021. 'I don't recall seeing any Temporary Event Notices,' went one missive. I quickly checked and hustled up a dozen. A few weeks later, another email popped up. 'Following the Govt. advice on Covid regulations, can you confirm that this event has now been cancelled?'
The event began in about two hours. 'Jeepers,' I thought. 'The events are seated meals,' I replied, my heart pumping. 'And my understanding is that we can operate within the guidelines with table service and socially distanced tables.'
That did the trick. 'I am contacting those that may now be breaching guidelines. Thank you for the clarification,' came a reply. And off she went to search for others in the hospitality sector whose hands she could cuff.
In the months that followed, further emails popped up. 'What crime have I committed now?' I wondered each time, my not unrealistic presumption on each occasion being that police only get in touch when there are crimes suspected or crimes perpetrated.
Each one always began: 'Good afternoon, Mr Sitwell' or 'Good evening, Mr Sitwell', just as you might expect a police officer to address a person. And having enjoyed my fair share of telly over the years, the expected follow-up being: 'And if you'd like to get into this here van perhaps you might be good enough to come down to the station and answer a few questions.'
My hands are literally shaking as I look back at these emails. My instinct is to reply with massively over-the-top politesse which, even if they don't perceive it, makes me feel like I'm guilty as hell.
A meeting was duly arranged with the policewoman as I endeavoured to apply for a premises licence. I welcomed her to my shed. 'The bodies, I mean tables, are positioned this way,' I explained. As it happens, she was delightful and encouraging. Perhaps The Plod are like this with criminals; it puts them at their ease, fooling them into revealing the whereabouts of the lead piping.
Indeed, post-meeting, a terrifying email turned up. 'CCTV cameras must be installed… the premises must operate a 'Challenge 25 policy'… training must be refreshed and documented… records must be kept of refusals to sell alcohol to persons who may be intoxicated… risk assessments must be in place…' and so forth.
But the licence was duly granted and all went well until I had a missive from the local council. 'Under planning laws, a change of use of the building has occurred (no longer agricultural use) and as such planning permission is required.' Back came that familiar feeling of hollow terror.
What a foolish error I had made, feeding humans rather than cows. I hired a pro to do the paperwork, filled in the forms, paid the fee and suffered the loss of profit from three events. I can now hold 12 dinners a year in my shed, enough for me to bear, frankly, but as a restaurant critic who runs events, a mere poacher with his toe in the game-keeping world, my heart feels for those in hospitality.
I clean the place, market the events, switch off the lights and do everything in between once a month. But so many thousands who toil in this most essential of industries, battered by tax, low margins and a reluctant public, do so under the constant fear of breaking rules and regulations. Councils should champion hospitality ventures, congratulate them, put an arm around them and encourage them.