This afternoon I went upstairs from my Airbnb to ask whoever lived there would they mind if I had a singing lesson at some point this week. The woman that opened the door was in her seventies, with a wryly amused look; deep turquoise woollen pyjamas and matching slippers. Her hair was grey, side parted and up-combed-over.
Here is the transcript of her monologue:
I can’t believe it’s Airbnb downstairs. I’ve been here twenty years, since I divorced my husband and the housing association found me this place. I wouldn’t want to be here, otherwise. But I’m from round here. There’s good places, of course, but also bad places. Ore. The Old Town is so overrated. All those...what are they called...artin...oh, is that it? I’ll know for next time. All that type of shops but still nobody picks up the dog shit.
Do you hear my tele? Because I go deaf of an evening.
I can’t believe it’s Airbnb downstairs. I did see a fat woman in there. And a bloke coming in and out I never saw without a can of beer in his hand. And the other week I happened to look down into what is your kitchen – I’m going to swear now, sorry – but fuck, the windows here are heavy to open – and there was a lad in there. Not up to much that kitchen you’ve got.
They call the place what? High end.
And is it?
No. I would have suspected not from catching a glimpse of that kitchen.
Have you already paid all the money?
How much?
Why would you pay that for here?
Reviews...they’re bullshit, sorry again for swearing. My sister, when she wants to take me to the theatre – sometimes I let her – will tell me to have a look at the reviews for what we’re going to see. I tell her, one, I’m too stupid to use my phone for that, and two, I don’t trust reviews. She won’t believe downstairs is an Airbnb, neither. She knows enough not to. That flat you're in can’t really be all that high end by its very...not nature...more history. This block was a hotel with an okay ballroom, give it its due – which is now the Spa. Have you heard that noise of a night, about nine-thirty? I’m in my bed for it. Can you see the bloke one floor above opposite, with the window cracked, with him framed with his back to it doing some kind of dance that doesn’t involve him moving overmuch? His flat was empty for years before him. The nine-thirtyish of an evening noise is some kind of loud extraction fan from the Spa. And whatever else that establishment is. I’ve seen who goes in and out of there and it’s hardly ever the women you might expect. It's blokes. Scurrying. One of them in velour.
I can’t believe downstairs is Airbnb. And the rest of this place after it was hotel became council and then housing association. There’s five blocks of flats here that have that status. The housing association offices have moved to a drop- in centre down and round the corner. I’ve not been in there, but I see the signs they have outside when I’m going to the town centre. Oh, who would ever want to go to that centre, though, really? It needs money spending on it. By nice people. The drop-in place had an indoor car boot sale Saturday, I saw. At first I was thinking they might be trying to get the cars in there, and wondered how, but apparently they had all the tat they always have at these things out on tables. There’s also a café in there but I don’t go because there’s no view out. And I like to watch people. Though being resident here all my life I don’t go on the beach. I don’t need it.
I can’t believe downstairs is Airbnb. But why have you come here, what do you do?
Oh, really? Opera? My daughter would like you. She was in London but it was a shared place so she moved to Brighton and does a lot of Amateur Dramatics there. She loves it. I have to go and see it sometimes, which is okay if I go with someone I know. But I don’t get on well with my daughter herself. For one thing, she drinks. And I don’t go in for drinking, or drugs, or unmarried mothers or foreigners. It’s difficult to live somewhere away from any of them, let alone all four of them.
I can’t believe downstairs is an Airbnb. I never know who anyone is any more, I’ve been here so long. Next door to me was a bloke for only about eighteen months and then he took himself away to St Leonards because he was insisting there was Asbestos. Which who would actually know? And then after him was a bloke for less time, found dead of a heart attack. The lounge in that flat is bigger than I have.
I think round the corner here is Airbnb, but of course that one is two bedrooms and has a sea view. You should say your piece on Airbnb, you know. If downstairs has good reviews, whoever owns the place has probably bribed people to write them. Do you think it’s that lad who I saw in what is your kitchen? I did hear two boys had had their parents buy them a flat in here. Supposedly, we have ‘nice’ people coming in and buying up the housing association flats. That always happens, doesn’t it? Places get all run down and then the nice people come.
Oh, here’s my phone. Have to answer it, it’s Barbara. ‘Barbara, you won’t believe what downstairs from me has turned into...’
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