I’ve launched, like a ship! Just wet me with champagne, Kate Middleton! I have morphed into Gwyneth Paltrow! She rented out her spare room, didn’t she? Or was it an annexe? With a pool. For one night only.
I’ve listed my spare room and ensuite on Airbnb, available from Good Friday at an average price of £85 a night. It was actually really easy, and I have a Superhost mentor who messages me with advice: ‘You need to let guests know how they will be greeted, that they will get a key. Introduce yourself a little.’
I uploaded photos, listed all the amenities (electric vehicle charger, ensuite, roll-top bath, open fire, loan of an iPad, Aesop products, hairdryer, fresh towels and breakfast at the prep table or in the garden). I posted a photo of the river behind my house, explained I am just a few steps away from the Teesdale Way.
I’ve stayed in so many hotels, I know what works, what doesn’t. The personal touches that make you feel more at home: I’ll sling in a fruit bowl and some flowers.
I am hoping a former troll/stalker doesn’t make a booking but am assured I can vet guests first. Plus, I also have Teddy: as soft as butter with humans but resembles a police dog. My mentor gave me my first review: ‘The photos are superb and inviting. The title is good and the description reads well. Accommodation tidy and clutter-free. Decorated and furnished to a high standard. Great location…’
I need to buy more bedding (I’m thinking Rise & Fall) and new towels, an extra DeVol stool for the prep table in the kitchen, a mini Roberts Radio. I’ve been quoted £35 to wash and iron the bedding, so figure I need to do this myself. Ah, slight problem: my washing machine was destroyed when the cellar was flooded. So add a new one to the list of things I need to buy.
I’ve also said that I like to greet guests, but after that keep to myself. My friend in Wales told me that I will hate it, having people in my home: David 1.0 only ever lasted about two hours before being forcibly ejected.
I am extremely OCD, needing to control my environment because I have no control over my life. I can be at the bottom of the paddocks poo picking, only to hear Steve Harley or Jane Birkin has just died, and have to hare to the top to go and write, abandoning the wheelbarrow. I have had to veer off the M1 to file at a service station twice: once when Margaret Thatcher died, the second time when Philip Green was outed in Parliament for allegedly being a bully. But then my friend also said that perhaps people will just want to be nosy, meet me and the dogs, so it could be a goldmine if I restrain the Basil Fawlty part of my personality.
I also think having guests will encourage me to get dressed properly each day, smile occasionally, speak at least a few words: as it is, I can go days without talking to a soul. Sharing my beautiful space will hopefully make me appreciate it even more. I wonder if I can say, ‘No dogs, no men’?
I can’t think of any other way to make ends meet, given last week I told you Octopus Energy plans to take just shy of £5,000 from my account very soon. I emailed a literary agent who had posted on Instagram to say she is back from maternity leave and looking for exciting new talent. No reply. Maybe I’m neither exciting nor new. I sent my finished novel – a steamy revenge thriller – to a famous actress who mentioned in an interview she wanted to see more older women on screen having sex: OK, here you go! No reply. I even emailed the editor of one of those glossies, you know the type, Yorkshire Living, Durham Living, suggesting a monthly column of different dog walks in our patch, or how about I become their spa editor? I’m a world expert! Fleet Street to my core! Absolutely no reply. Not even a, ‘Go away and never darken my door again!’
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Lidl doesn’t sell matches, only lighters.
- Staying in Primrose Hill the other week for work, bats flitted outside my window. In my village I’ve not seen a single bat, and just one rabbit. Five years ago, the ground was carpeted with bunnies.
- A week on from writing the above, I’ve not had a single, solitary Airbnb booking…
