And it came to pass that the marital home was sold and your very favourite intermittent blogger was suddenly without portfolio. The scientist had already proffered his home to Saga and me, but I wasn't quite ready for him to discover that I did not in fact fart rainbows and poop strawberries. A few panicky days followed where I cajoled begged and pleased with landlords and tenants alike, but the beast was deemed canis non grata. And eventually I found a room in a shared home on Airbnb.
Are you aware of Airbnb? It’s an online community of people who have spare rooms that they don’t mind weird strangers kipping in. This was in a less salubrious part of town than I was used to, but it had great reviews, plenty of other people and most importantly it welcomed dogs.
I duly turned up and whilst a little odd, it was do-able for the 3 to 4 weeks until my new house would be ready. It was a smaller room than I had expected and not as clean as it could be, but Saga was made very welcome and the other guests seemed charming. The host was a "lively" drinker going through at least one large bottle of vodka a day - Something that perturbed me but I could always hide in my room.
After an uneventful week, said host and most of the guests left for a week in Barcelona. I was left alone in the house with instructions on welcoming new guests (!)
I took the opportunity to clean the fridge (hint: cucumber is not a liquid), the bathroom and the kitchen. I explained to each new arrival that I wasn’t the host, but a guest just like them!
A middle of the night appearance by one the host's boyfriends, high as a kite and belligerent as only the extremely drunk and stupid can be, was a bit of a spoiler. There was a knock at the door. It was 3 am but I assumed a late guest was arriving. I opened the door to a young man, eyes glazed slurring at me. He pushed past me and tried to enter s guest room. I was fearless. I blocked his path and directed him to the kitchen. Where he shouted, swore, threatened and tried to grab me.
Me: You have to leave
Him: Wha’re you gonna do abou it you shtupid bitch?
Me: I’ll call the police
Him: No you won’ - Call ‘em then..
Redo from start
So I called the police and they were marvellous. Young man took himself off when he realised I was actually speaking with someone. And after he'd gone, I cried and cried and cried. I sent an ‘unhappy’ text to the host, who didn’t bother to reply. However vague messages were received via the other guests.
Whilst wondering around the house that night, I noticed that the back door didn’t shut properly and anyone could in fact walk in. I piled up furniture against it and sat shaking in the kitchen.
Cue a call the next day to the scientist, who never even said I told you so which I felt was admirable. That night Saga and I took a taxi ride over to his apartment, with all our stuff in tow and he gave me chocolate and a hug.
The reason I bring up this whole miserable tale is because of how long it then took to get any kind of response out of Airbnb. 3 months of emails, phone calls, going over the details again and again, sending the police report, photographs etc. All they cared about was that the room I had wasn’t the room I had booked – Apparently being threatened in your home and not having any kind of lock on the door is AOK with them.
And then as I was finally getting somewhere and I was told they would refund my money the next day, they did instead take yet more money from me. And I was on that phone like billyo dropping in words like “steal” and “fraud” and "legal advice".
It took another 2 weeks to get that money back. But bless the adviser, he gave me a voucher for £80 off my “next Airbnb booking” because apparently he wanted me to have good experience with them!
The scientist put us up (put up with us?) for 2 ½ weeks which was marvellous of him and I think I’ve still managed to persuade him that I do not in fact fart but instead extrude rose scented air gently from my body.
