I’m moving out of my house for two weeks so that I can (scalp) make some money from the influx of international fans coming over to enjoy the festivities.
I’ve lined up some lovely folk who are going to live in my house for two weeks and essentially pay for my holiday to Greece. Win win, as the consultants like to say.
And that’s fab. They’re nice people. I know them through a friend, so they’re vouched for, and they’re only staying for two weeks. And I have mattress on the floor in M’s flat until I head off to bath in the Aegean.
All well and good.
Until I realized these people will be shagging in my bed.
Now this wouldn’t normally be a problem. If I was gettin’ some, I’d be incredibly laissez-faire about the whole thing. If I’m shagging, then I’m delighted if the whole world shags with me. Theoretically speaking, of course. Shag, I’d say. Shag away. Shag incessantly. In fact, if you position the dresser mirror just so…*ahem*…well yes, you get the picture.
But I’m not.
So I’m suddenly horrified at the thought of someone soiling my virgin bed. My safe haven. My escape pod. Other people making the two backed beast in my little snake pit? Cue Munchian ‘Scream’……
I wonder if I can quickly build a ‘no shagging’ clause into my lease agreement?
Edvard Munch’s The Scream