I HAVE become a flat-sitter. By this I do not mean someone with a square bum. No, I am taking care of someone else's home in their absence. This is not any ordinary flat, but that of a man who is infinitely better-off than myself. It is practically a palace, what with its Victorian ceiling paintings, parquet flooring, grand piano and parades of priceless antiques.
That I landed this responsibility is rather surprising. As anyone who knows me will attest, I am not known for my cleanliness and things of value tend to fall apart when I touch them. None the less, for a month I have been solely responsible for the
upkeep of this mansion and have taken well to the job of janitor.
Over and above the list of things to do (water the aspidistra, set burglar alarm, set heating to level three, and so on) I have learned that there are many unwritten rules to flat-sitting. For example, since part of the plan is to make the place look occupied by having lights on, the TV on etc, to keep burglars away, it is important to spend some time in the flat doing these things. Herein lies the first unwritten rule: don't get too relaxed – you do not actually live there.
This I have found very unsettling, as having watched a movie and staggering toward bed I realise that I am not in fact in my own home, and so have to face a two-mile drive back to my own bed, through the cold dark night.
The second unwritten rule involves bathing. My own flat is infamous for its lack of space. People get shown round, then stop in their tracks after I've shown them the living room/kitchen/bedroom (which are actually one room).
"Oh, is that it?" they ask. "But where's your bathroom?" I have a toilet pan but no bath, until someone invents a bath that can be taken vertically I shall have to do without. Imagine then the temptations I have had to face in the palace with its extra-wide, Jacuzzi-style, gold-tapped, constant-hot-water antique porcelain bathtub.
Suffice to say I have got into the rather odd habit of travelling miles to bathe and have spent entire days luxuriating in steaming ecstasy. But herein lies another important lesson. When flat-sitting do not use up all of the owner's bath products.
At first it was the fruits-of-the-forest scented bath bombs, then the champagne shampoo. Various lotions and potions then followed as I lay back in the suds reading the aphorisms of Oscar Wilde.
It was only when I realised that the true property owner was due to return within a week that I discovered the full extent of my trespass. There was no way I could hide the fact that I'd used up every last drop of bubble bath and eau de toilette.
I made an inventory of what had to be replaced, taking careful note of the labels and brands. Of course, this being the home of a rich man with considerable style, he had not been one to skimp on bathing materials.
So it has been that in replacing all that I had used, I am out of pocket to the tune of £114. Such is the cost of decadence.
I'm just hoping that the owner will not notice the slight discrepancy in the brands of champagne-scented bath bombs. For the life of me I was damned if I was going to fork out another fifty quid on the Vintage Bollinger version.
