Best Friends are Baches

Sometimes I wonder why home owners rent their holiday homes. Oh. Right. Money. Aside from your cash, I think, they'd prefer all out of town guests to be IMAGINARY. Yep. Seen briefly, then vanish leaving only a Pledge worthy shine.

Next time you load the fridge into the chilly bin, throw towels, raincoats, warm coats, walking shoes, polite pyjamas, sun hats, sunscreen, bike helmets, bikes, canned food, WINE etcetera into and onto the car and drive for two and a half hours on a Friday evening you can RELAX. Because on arriving at your spic and span spacious abode you'll be calling the shots. Once you've handed over your dosh, tucked your HOUSE RULES out of sight, you can play a simple game-of-pretend yourself. Bach-bitch. 

Rule One:

To pretend you haven’t been fossicking through their well stocked pantry helping yourself to: loose leaf tea for your morning brew, rice bran oil to fry slices of halloumi to top your two tin homemade organic cannellini baked beans, fresh grind salt and pepper, slightly stale Coleman’s grainy mustard and two Panadol from the silver foiled plastic pouch tucked squarely in front of the ex-butter dish (home of the S&P). Simply replace all items exactly where you found them! Hells bells no one remembers everything!!

Rule Two:
But if you do forget to bring your own sheets - as instructed, borrow theirs. Who wants to sweat between a polyester mattress protector and a polyester filled duvet inner under a two toned brown Dacron bed spread, when you can sweat between pale brown slightly pilled polycotton sheets instead. No one will know. You showered daily and wore pyjamas. Simply: cool those sheets while you're watching some world cup rugby, shake them out and fold them ever so neatly. While trying to remember that how-to-fold-a-fucking-fitted-sheet diagram you once glanced at thinking - stupid waste of time, who actually NEEDS to know that shit. Then stuff those barely used sheets back into the groaning linen cupboard right at the back, under another set, for pressing.

Rule Three:
When vacating - follow to a T the A4 page of cleaning instructions that begins with a long tirade about how lucky you are to be staying in a lovely home for a lot less than you would fork out for a motel because of the generous privilege bestowed upon you: "Self-clean". Rejoice when you open the cupboard under the sink and your chemical free sensibilities are bombarded by an army of cleaning products that could sterilize a small third world country and satiate the most manically OCD of cleaners for a whole lovely long weekend. You grab a cloth, select the Jiff and do your work. You are thorough. You make sure you swipe the bog last. Two sport-support-mums do not a lot of soap scum make in a plexi-glass shower when afforded no soap (and have to resort to antibacterial handwash). One who forgets sheets, and buys last minute feed-fourteen-lasagne and home baking from the deli, is hardly likely to remember. SOAP.

And as you jiff, rinse and dry surfaces as instructed you think it might be a motel next time. A motel where you can leave your dishes (if your inner slob so desires). Where little pottles of uht milk and sachets of coffee and tea will welcome you. Beg you to use them all up and take home the sachets of Milo if you bloody well want to. Where on checking in you’ll receive 350mls of fresh milk. Green or blue? Not a sheet of 150 Cleaning Commandments. A motel where freshly made white sheeted beds and small but fluffy bath towels await you. Along with little packets of soap you'll rip open and happily lather with. Little soaps that will dry and cling to the side of your sponge bag until you go back to that spacious sunny holiday home …