After the unexpected palaver of my outbound journey to the UK, I finally arrive at Hither Green station hoping to make my way to the Airbnb. I mistakenly choose an alternative route and am lost. I ring Kiki, my host, who agrees to meet me. I am not sure if she is driving or walking. I hope it’s the former. She shows up with her son and two dogs by foot, three quarters of an hour after I’ve been waiting in the cold and dark.
On arrival, the accommodation falls short of expectations to say the least. The few glowing reviews and limited pictures are misleading. The carpet and furniture is old and encrusted with dirt (making Kiki's request to remove shoes on entry rather pointless). The living room and kitchen are in a state of disarray. Dishes are stacked high and remnants of raw fish and stale bread are discarded on the counter. The sink in the toilet outside my room doesn’t work, with only a complicated shower head system. Kiki is not keen on me using it much, on account of it potentially flooding the facilities. The main bathroom is uninviting and she hasn’t bothered to empty the almost-full bin.
As well as two dogs Kiki has a couple of cats, one of which lounges imperiously on my bed and only responding when she's shooed away by her owner. The idea of sitting, let alone cooking or eating anywhere in the flat is unappealing. Unfortunately, already having experienced enough chaos journeying to London, it doesn't occur to me to look for somewhere new. Plus, Kiki has been kind and accommodating so far.
I am determined to pass by to see mum on my first night. It’s been two years, after all. As much as I loathe to step out without freshening up, I don’t have time to shower or change if I want to be back at a decent hour. Kiki has a strange rule about switching off the Wi-Fi from 11pm, claiming it gives her a headache. I find it odd but not wholly implausible (although I probably should).
It's an inconvenient rule. Kiki says guests usually just use their data. I explain I don’t have a smartphone. She seems to be sympathetic. She didn’t have a mobile of any kind until recently.
Meanwhile, mum has all sorts of long-awaited and unanticipated treats waiting for me. So many, that there’s no chance of me taking it all back to Brussels in one sitting. As has been the case since I emigrated, mum is in a spoiling mood, quite happy for me to eat her out of house and home if I so wish. I don’t and have to stop her from over-indulging me.
My diary the next day is full. I have my rescheduled lateral flow test first thing. If all goes well, I can head to church as planned. The customer service at the test centre is fantastic. I’m not used to such friendliness in the Big Choke. I have a good whinge to the young lady doing my swab about the lack of mask-wearing in the city; even on public transport where it’s supposed to be a requirement. To my horror, I'll see unmasked citizens - mostly men- coughing and not so much as covering their mouths. At the time, daily infection rates are well over 40,000. She concurs that a cloth over the face is no great sacrifice to protect others and oneself.
To my great relief, the clinic sends me a message giving me the all clear within half an hour. I kill some time at Waterloo station before heading to church. Too much time. I walk in part-way through the sermon; the latest in a series on Rebuilding the Church, based on the book of Nehemiah.
I look around for recognisable faces. At first it takes a while to find them. After the service, I slowly but surely reconnect with my UK church family. I never cease to marvel at the time-lapse rate children seem to grow. Kids fixed as toddlers in my mind are almost pre-teens. There’s often a baby or two, I wasn’t previously aware of.
I’ve arranged a post-church brunch with some of the fam. A couple drop out last minute owing to pressing commitments but the party gains a couple more. My friend Pete invites along his former student, Whitney – a regular post-church luncher from back in the day-and a couple of others, including Jonas with whom I’m not familiar but who’s hard to miss given his penchant for loud exclamations during the service. I admit to finding them bloomin' distracting. Something of an irony that we’ll be lunching together.
Whitney recommends a café in the vicinity of which I was hitherto ignorant but has an impressively wide-ranging, not to mention tasty, menu. Whitney and I engage in a long and fascinating discussion about Christians navigating and flourishing within the arts. I have more appointments but find it hard to leave. When I do manage to tear myself away, one of the party very kindly offers to pick up the bill.
I breeze by Lidl, forever amazed at how the English iteration of this German company leaves its European analogues in the shade. I drop off my my shopping at Kiki’s. Her son is preparing to go trick-or-treating with a friend. I presume they’ll be up late. As a courtesy, I inform Kiki I’ll be back by 10pm.
After yet another encouraging catch-up and grabbing some takeaway from my favourite chicken shop, I find a grizzly Kiki waiting for me at the accommodation. She’s ready for bed. The internet is already switched off, earlier than the advertised time. I ask if I can still use it. She reluctantly agrees.
Most people have data, she adds uncharitably. I apologise and then regret doing so. I having nothing to be sorry about.
My Sunday night treats don’t taste so good, especially eating in that insalubrious environment. I am reconsidering the wisdom of having done shopping when I can’t envisage cooking in that mess of a kitchen. After eating, I prepare for a shower to avoid the Monday morning school-run bustle. To my surprise Kiki is up again, hovering around in the grubby kitchen. By then she’s done a 180. I start to wonder if there are mental health issues. She complains about me being up late for a second night. I respond calmly that I’m an adult. I’m not staying in her property for free. She continues with something about it being a family home (which she should have considered before renting on Airbnb). More irritated, I point out that the state of the premises doesn’t make it worth the money. She insists on not giving me a refund. Fine. I’ll raise a complaint with Airbnb, I warn.
I would start it immediately if it weren’t for Kiki's 'no internet at night' rule.
By the morning, she’s beaten me to it. An email notification pops up about a refund; far too low given that I’ve only spent two nights in the property.
It’s a frantic morning of phone calls to mum as well as Airbnb, querying the refund amount, searching for alternatives and requests from the company for visual evidence of the dodgy conditions. Other appointments are postponed or cancelled. Meanwhile, Kiki harasses me to get out of her house and threatens to charge me one more day if I don’t leave immediately. I haven’t even had time to find another rental.
I try to discreetly take pictures, noticing that she must have got wise and tidied a little. I can’t avoid running into her completely. She becomes even more enraged when she sees me taking photos. I refuse to cower and explain exactly why I need them.
Mum offers to let me dump my stuff in her modest-sized digs until I find an alternative. I call a taxi, whilst Kiki roams around like a she-bear with a massive splinter in her paw. My cab can’t come quickly enough.
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