Real life | 14 April 2016

I am becoming the Basil Fawlty of Airbnb. Almost everything that tormented Basil has tormented me since I started taking in guests. I am thinking of nailing up a sign saying Kitey Towers, with the ‘y’ askew.

If you don’t know what Airbnb is: some whizz-kid in America hit upon the idea of charging people to sleep on an airbed in his New York apartment. He started a website. You register your home, put up photos, and choose guests you think you will get on with.

I’ve had customers from Australia, New Zealand, America, Spain. But while they are usually delightful, I have often felt myself bristling like Fawlty at the sheer cheek of the paying public. One lady moaned that she didn’t want to pay the cleaning fee because I need only hoover a small square around the door of the bedroom once she’d gone.

I drew myself up and nearly screamed: ‘Oh, absolutely! And if you come again and find an old sock dropped over the far side of the bed by the previous guests, which I hadn’t spotted, because I only hoovered by the door, I’m sure you’ll understand.