The Landlady
The landlady discovers that her old tenant just can’t get enough of her
For the past year, I have not had many calls from my usual language schools and my rooms have mainly been rented out through word of mouth. I have to admit that the lack of contact seemed rather odd, as one cannot walk down the Western Road without becoming engulfed in flocks of chattering foreigners and said language schools must be short of decent rooms.
Mind you, after the noodle-slurping Korean complained to his school that I’d provided too many ‘ready meals’ in one week – I was on holiday in Beirut at the time, what else was I supposed to do? – I thought that word had perhaps got out and potential clientele were going elsewhere.
Added to this is the fact that my entire family do a very poor job of disguising the fact that they despise many of the foreign students and even The Small Daughter has taken to leaving the room when one of them comes in.
“My family do a poor job of disguising the fact they despise the students”
My paranoia was short-lived, because this morning I telephoned one of the schools I used to work with a great deal. The accommodation officer was very pleased to hear from me and claimed that she’d left many messages on my phone over the past year looking for rooms for students. It suddenly dawned on me that I’d changed my phone number six months ago in order to swerve unwanted contact from The Ex Boyfriend and in my misery and disorganisation had neglected to inform most of my business contacts. The accommodation officer went on to explain that she’d even had calls from people who’d stayed with me before, who had apparently liked it so much that they wanted to come back! This, I find seriously hard to believe as I’m sure that only the clinically insane and seriously deluded could feel this way.
As you know, I’m a great fan of ‘The Devil I Know’ and so it’s deeply annoying that I’ve inadvertently turned some of them away, never mind the fact that I’d like to know who these crazy creatures are.
One crazy creature who is leaving this weekend is the high-fiving Italian. I cannot say I am sorry to see him go because he grates on my English reserve like a well-honed Parmesan shaver. As his piece de resistance, he attended Oceana last night in a skin-tight white boiler suit with thousands of zips on it. Needless to say, I’ve given him my old phone number…
