A Landlord's Life

It's that time of the year when tenants change, so scouring and cleaning becomes the order of the day. Students have migrated for the summer and, in one case, I don't intend them to return to feather in my nest. Frankly, the nest requires some serious repair work, like a sink to be re-attached to the wall and a new oven purchased, the existing one having burnt itself out.

That's some home-cookin' folks - for males! Is this a survival sport of the species, learning to cook for themselves? Another menagerie of students may not be coming back, though they were impeccable housekeepers. At first I put it down to their Scandinavian origins, being of a generation for whom the Nordics were touted as a role model of how efficient the sloppy Irish might become, once we got our collective head out of the trough of history. Well, ah, judge for yourself.

This set of Finns have made their pile of dosh and, I suspect, are leaving just one step ahead of a late demand from Revenue for "undeclared earnings".

They came to me via an agency, replete with references from their language school in Dublin, where they had enrolled as mature students of English. The older of the women supplied a copy of her certificate for TFL - teaching English as a foreign language. She was Eastern European and introduced me to her two juniors, whom she said were Finnish. Not surprisingly, they all spoke fluent Russian. I was charmed at this bit of post-communist migration and made a mawkish fool of myself, offering to be taught the odd pigeon phrase in Russian, in return for English conversation. They thought this was very funny, just as I thought their deep throat usage of English was out of a Cold War spy thriller.

My willingness to be charmed - and to learn a new language - was entirely unconnected with the striking fact they were tall, handsome women, with high Slavic cheek bones and a forthright manner. As were my more than usual visits to the apartment, entirely in the course of duty, to see how they were settling-in. A defunct welcome board could give me a medal for services to tourism.

However, my tenants did not reciprocate such overtures and in effect froze me out after a while, neither offering a cup of tea nor chat. I put this down to having barged in on some romantic assignation, as a scurrying into a room and closed door made clear. Neither did they take up my offer of mutual language lessons, which struck me as strange, given their reason for being here.

So I left them to their devices, which in retrospect, seems the apposite word. The rent came promptly into my bank account, until a month ago, when a brief, rudimentary call said they would be leaving as their college term was concluded. I must say, their English had improved somewhat, though still heavily accented. Time, then, to scour and get ready for another tenant. They left the apartment in reasonable condition, though as I worked through, it seemed they did very little cooking at home, as the hob and oven were hardly used. In fact, little signs of usual habitation, except they used the shower a lot, to judge from the condensation which had blackened the window sills.

I started cleaning early in the morning and by the afternoon had answered the bell to what the tabloids call "a succession of male callers". Was Mitzi in? Sorry, don't know any of that name. Oh, you mean the tall girl from. She haf gone home, term finished. (Out of tenant solidarity I found myself lapsing into their patois).

Ah, and Tanya? Sorry, she same, she gone.

After the fourth male had gone away disappointed, I was left with the nagging recognition of faces. Beaming and happy and wealthy, they turn up regularly in the pic-pages of the glossy magazines, usually as donors at charity functions, or giving away another daughter at a society wedding. Obviously, too, they exchange data on the best golf courses, bars and places of relaxation. Well, whatever keeps you young, guys. I am only a landlord and a provider of shelter to migrant students.