Sleeping with Strangers...

Every single weekend in June and July I’ve shared my home with strangers. It would be more accurate to have titled this piece not sleeping with strangers, because although I haven’t had any bad experiences, the whole thing has been strange and unsettling and I’ve barely slept.

Living as I do in the thriving seaside town of Margate, listing your house on Airbnb for the summer months is par for the course. Why not make a bit of extra cash when the opportunity is there, the consensus seems to be? I had planned on listing my house with location agencies for photo shoots, but not as a holiday rental, because, well…I live here.

But when facing the perfect storm of having to buy out my ex-boyfriend from the house at the same time as my styling work suddenly going eerily quiet, it was either Airbnb or get a proper job. Having run my own business for many years, ‘a proper job’ did not appeal (What would I even do? I’m a really good stylist, I can write, and I’m generally very resourceful, a doer, a problem solver. But aside from that, my transferable skill set is lacking).

Initially I listed the entire house and it was immediately booked up for one weekend in each of the summer months. Great, I thought! They like the house! I’m popular! I created a place where people want to stay!

But after fulfilling two of these whole house bookings - which I tied in with a visit to my mum in South London, cat in tow - I cancelled the third. It turns out, handing over the keys to groups of strangers for the house I’ve spent two years - and all my money - renovating, didn’t feel great. The money was nice and nothing to be sniffed at, but it felt icky. The first time I gave the keys to a young mum and heard her tell her small son “it’s our house now” I almost cried. Actually I almost screamed “No! It’s MY house!” as I walked up the garden path, Kimchi meowing loudly in his carrier case as he would continue to do for the entire two hour drive to London.

I may have burned some sage upon my return each time, in an effort to cleanse the energy after each group vacated. I’m not typically a sage burner but I guess my years in LA rubbed off after all. I mean, no harm in trying it right?

After I let two groups of strangers sleep in my beds and use my kitchen and barbecue in my garden - all of whom were respectful and no trouble, by the way - I removed the listing. Aside from the aforementioned ick, it was a real pain in the ass to have to leave - with the cat - each time. Had it just been me, I could’ve stayed locally or in London with various friends or my kids. But travelling with my feline friend made it tricky.

Instead I decided to list two of the bedrooms - actual B&B style - in the way Airbnb was originally intended. I wouldn’t actually serve breakfast nor would I play host, but I would remain in the house and be available for any queries. They would get a room and a nice bathroom at a fraction of the cost of a hotel and I would get a bit of extra cash without having to leave (or get a ‘proper’ job) until shoots picked up once again.

A short term solution to an immediate problem that resulted in me barely sleeping a wink on any Saturday night in June and July. I just couldn’t allow myself to relax, even though each guest was perfectly fine. It was mainly couples, the occasional pair of girlfriends, young and sweet and in Margate to have fun. Never groups of men for obvious reasons. And yet, sleep eluded me on the nights the rooms were booked.

Remember the lovely linen curtain I hung? That was to offer the illusion of privacy in my open plan house as guests came and went. They could come in the front door and go straight to their rooms while I was in the main living area part of the house.

Only once did I have an older couple who didn’t quite understand the rules and flung the curtain open, walking straight into the kitchen in the morning as I was still in my skimpy sleep wear and feeling very ill after a night of fever and chills. Sick and exhausted as I was and still reeling from having heard the man’s noisy bodily functions during his morning bathroom routine, I was quite rude. At least rude for me, a recovering people pleaser, so used to making people feel comfortable even when they are behaving badly.

I explained that this area was private and how can I help you, with an undertone of “it’s almost time for you to check out, isn’t it?”

A PRIVATE :) sign was immediately hung from the curtain, smiley face added to make it less aggressive because people pleasers still gotta please.

Allowing strangers to spend a night in my home has been an interesting experiment and it’s given me an insight to what matters most to some people. I know for a fact that the beds were comfortable, the linen and towels were fresh, the rooms were spotless, and the price was a bargain. And yet…

One lady suggested those sticky grippy things in the bath to stop someone slipping when showering. Point taken.

Another complained that the (brand new) shower door in my (lovely new) guest loo was difficult to open. They aren’t wrong, but I didn’t actually design the shower door and a complaint to Victorian Plumbing would’ve been more effective.

Another guest said the room they stayed in felt dated and unfinished.

‘Dated’ probably referred to the vintage lamp and floral curtains. And ‘unfinished’ was of course in reference to the intentionally stripped walls. Judging by the concert they came to Margate to see (I won’t say who, that would just be mean and reveal myself as a truly judgemental person…) they probably aren’t the types of people who care for vintage furniture or raw walls, so no offence was taken. And they did book the room based on the true to life photos, so really the complaints were unwarranted. There was no false advertising.

But when you invite strangers into your house you have to be willing to open yourself up for criticism and my skin is certainly a little thicker now.

‘Dated and unfinished’

The shower door that was a challenge to open for one of my guests

On Sunday morning I checked out my last guest and have promptly blocked all future dates on Airbnb. It got me through a tricky period, and it’s good to know it’s an option. But I won’t miss those sleepless nights and the uneasy feeling of sharing my home with people who may or may not complain about some obscure detail I’ve overlooked.

My new roommate is my mum.

Yesterday I moved her out of her South London flat and brought her back to the area she discovered and moved us all to in the mid eighties. I joke that my mum is the original DFL (Down From London) a slightly derogatory term used today by locals for us city folk flocking to Margate and pushing the house prices up. My mum left West London in 1985, selling a Victorian terraced house in Ealing and buying a detached house not far from where I now live - a house with a pool and a huge garden. She was ahead of her time.

Of course we all left decades ago, back to London, to New York, to opportunities we felt Margate and Broadstairs couldn’t offer us, and of my three siblings only I’ve returned.

But now my mum is also back, away from the traffic and grime of Lewisham and hopefully soon with more of a spring in her step as she once again breathes the sea air and spends time in the garden.

I’ll take my mum over an Airbnb guest any day.