SATIRE
Diary of a Seaside Landlady
By Teigh-Anne Toast
Signore Benito Falabella arrived, tottering behind two enormous suitcases, fit for a princeling. His luggage contained more clothes than he had words of English. But, he managed to answer a couple of preliminary questions; “good!” he said, in response to “how are you?”, and “beautiful!” when asked about his flight. With this level of language skill, I felt sure he would be popular with any adolescent girls in the vicinity. Further interrogation was met with a startled snort and a hasty exit from the room.
Dedicated to his appearance, Benito slathered himself in aftershave – L’Homme de Terre by Christian Dior. Despite no obvious sign of facial hair. But personal vanity aside, Benito was keen to be useful to the household. Trotting into the kitchen after lunch one day, he tossed his mane and exclaimed, “I can ELP???” To which I said, “yes, please” and fetched the stepladder so that he could reach the sink. I instructed him in simple terms, to wash his soup bowl and leave it in the drainer. Following ten minutes of enthusiastic splashing, I went back to the kitchen to check on his efforts. And there was the bowl, still in the sink, brimful of water, soap and soup…
Benito didn’t like my cooking. I tempted him with pasta now and then and the aforementioned soup, but generally, my food failed to satisfy. If he asked for a sandwich, said sandwich would inevitably be found in his room, fully intact, after several days. Fit only for the bin.
After two weeks in Hastings, Benito turned up having had both sides of his head shaved. I worried that he might have gone native and asked if he’d shown his new look to his family back home. “No, I am scarred!” I mentally corrected his choice of word but then decided to let it stand because, after all, he had a point.
He spent a day in London with his best friend, Silvio. “What did you see in our great Capital?”, I quizzed. He looked at me and his eyes sparkled with confusion for several seconds. Finally, he smiled in triumph and said, “shopping!” Ah, of course…
Months passed until the day when Benito had to go. On that sad day his enormous monogrammed bags, his many bottles of face perfume and his magnificent collection of tiny horseshoes left the house for good.
Next please…
I had an introductory Zoom meeting with Valentina and her mother. Her mother burst into tears at the sight of me. She said it was because I was a vegetarian.
Valentina, it turned out, was considerate, helpful and willing to learn our strange English customs. Boiling the Kettle. Amazing! Recycling yoghurt pots. So funny! Some aspects of life drew gasps of astonishment. Taking a bus to school! Mad! Well, there is little prospect of kidnap by the local cartel in Hastings. A trip to the town centre elicited gasps: “Harry Potter! Harry Potter!”
In the modern fashion, Valentina’s every waking minute was live-streamed to assorted familiars back home. WhatsApp was the primary medium of communication and voice-note, the means of recording experiences. For example, “ooohwaahnggomymybuurse!!” This translated as, “I have boarded the wrong bus and I am now outside the fire station. Please send help.” WhatsApp was great for video messaging. One day, Valentina, sent an incredible documentary about her inability to open a locked door. The camera panned in and out, focussing on the lock and a voice-over shrieked, “I can’t find the lock! Oh, my God! WHERE! is… the LOCK???!!
Another day, a high pitched yelp emanated from her room.
I wondered if a hamster was trapped in a vice. No, it was just that a package had arrived. It contained a new pair of sneakers.
Valentina’s efforts at cooking were variable. Memorably, her approach included the boiling of pre-cooked chickpeas for a salad, followed by the careful peeling of each one individually. The skins, she explained, contain evil spirits which will later escape as farts. Or something like that.
All too soon, an unbearable sorrow was visited upon Valentina and her friendship group. Their dearest comrade, Hildegard, had to return to her convent school in Baden-Baden. The friends all gathered for their last breakfast before her departure. Later, I received a shaky voice-note from Valentina. With her Egg McMuffin damp with grief, she explained that now only a surviving group sleepover at Mirabella’s house, and 13 hours of Netflix, could begin to mend their broken spirits. My heart melted. I knew they would, literally, like NEVER FORGET that time they bought lip gloss in Superdrug. Or that other time they ate doughnuts on West Hill (5 for £1). But they would ALWAYS have Hastings!
Dear reader, I cannot pretend that my own imitation of competence, sophistication and worldliness was any different when I was their age. Being a teenager was long, long ago for me. And yet, it still feels so fresh and alive. But, that, of course, is because it was only yesterday…
Disclaimer: all names have been changed and some incidents may possibly have been slightly exaggerated.
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