“Simone, we have two potential tenants who would like to view your flat today. Is that okay?”
It’s Tuesday 23rd July. I’m at my desk when I receive this email from the estate agent dealing with leasing my flat. I’ve been out past midnight for four nights in a row, and will be out again tonight. In exactly two weeks I depart permanently for Australia to start my new job and I’m exhausted. Physically and emotionally. My farewell tour has been bittersweet, and has taken its toll.
My flat’s cluttered with twenty boxes. Ninety cubic feet of my possessions will be collected on Friday to commence a twelve week journey across the seas. In addition to the waiting cargo, my uncharacteristically frantic social life has prevented me from maintaining my housekeeping. It’s all I can do to be showered, dressed and turn up to work or my next leaving do.
I’ve been keeping myself clean and presentable (just), but my home’s suffering. My neglected flat isn’t ready for unveiling, but I need tenants so I reply.
“The place is a complete mess, but you’re welcome to let them in while I’m at work.”
I scan my brain for anything of particular embarrassment. My dirty clothes (inclusive of knickers) are safely in the washing machine, so aside from some scattered (clean) clothes, and some dirty dishes in the sink, I’m pretty sure I’ve nothing of which to be ashamed. Either way, I’ve given them the green-light so it’s too late to worry.
The work day finishes and I enjoy dinner on the South Bank with a friend and ex-colleague. It’s a hot summer evening and the atmosphere along the Thames is buzzing. Nostalgia and sentimentality flood me. I’ll miss the familiar silhouettes of St Paul’s, Big Ben and the London Eye. I’ll miss my friend.
The tube’s crammed and alive with chatter when I complete yet another goodbye and head home at just after 11pm.
With red eyes and a tired head I unlock my front door and enter my bedroom. I’d made my bed this morning, as I do every day (no matter how busy I am). As I take off my heels I look at the clean white linen duvet and gasp.
Sitting right in the centre of the bed: my hot pink vibrator.
No way that wasn’t seen . . .
I laugh as I picture the estate agent and prospective tenants entering the room, locking eyes on the brazen phallus but desperately babbling about anything else “ … So plenty of wardrobe space, nice big window …” and moving rapidly to the next room.
They say you should never leave home without clean underwear. You should also never leave home without putting your sex toys back in the bedside drawer. Lesson learned.