The Landlady
Sugar and spice
The Spanish ‘friend’ of my Italian lodger has moved in. She came to see me last week and I immediately liked her as she had a disarmingly direct approach and a very good command of the English language. Furthermore, she used her linguistic skills to ask all the right questions about living at Landlady Towers. Amongst other pertinent queries, she asked if I would mind if she used the kitchen to cook her own food at the weekends. Normally, lodgers I’ve had in the past have not bothered to ask and with force and determination they have reduced the kitchen to an eggy bomb site and departed for the pub, leaving me to clean it all up. They have then appeared to be utterly astounded and mortally wounded when I’ve been annoyed with them.
“In all my years of renting, no-one has ever managed to get to the washing-up before I have”
I have not had this problem with the Italian because he can’t cook anything – not even an egg – and struggles to even put his coffee cup in the dishwasher. On a domestic front, The Big Son – who is eight years younger than The Italian – could run rings round him. Being as we’re on the subject of coffee, while The Boyfriend brews something akin to engine-oil or worse in a stove-top contraption, The Italian makes very weak and milky instant coffee from a jar that I’ve had for about six years. Since he’s been here, every morning when I come in from yoga, I’ve been greeted by the sight of a crumby and jammy chopping board where he has eaten his breakfast, then failed, forgotten, or simply not realised that he has to clear up after himself. I blame his mama. Years ago, I would have been furious about this, but nowadays it hardly bothers me at all, as I know that there are much greater kitchen sins that people can – and do – commit. These I shall list on another occasion, as it will more than fill a whole column.
Since the Spanish girl has moved in however, there has been a sea change and now when I come in from yoga, there is not a crumb in sight, all coffee cups are properly stacked in the dishwasher and the kitchen seems to be cleaner than when I left it. Last night after one of my rather lovely – according to my charming new lodger – home cooked dinners, she washed up all the pots and pans I’d used, then neatly stacked everybody’s plates in the dishwasher.
In all my years of renting – and indeed of having my own idle brood around the place – no-one has ever managed to get to the washing-up before I have. In fact, if it were not for me – and to be fair The Big Son – the dishwasher would never be emptied, as The Big Daughter would sooner eat off the floor than embark on such a task. Because I sense a perfect – not to mention helpful – lodger, I am bending over backwards to make her as comfortable as possible, lending her my TV and making bread every day. You see, it takes a visiting female in the house to make these changes. Years ago, when I billeted a male and female music student simultaneously, the female student gave the male student a good clip round the ear when he – as boys do – decided to eat jam and toast without the intervention of a plate. For obvious reasons, I’ve kept in touch with her and she is visiting this weekend with her boyfriend. For his sake, I hope she doesn’t catch The Italian at breakfast time…
