Not so long ago I moved in with a landlady. Let’s call her ‘Catarina.’ Her house was the perfect find. It was a Georgian terrace opposite one of South London’s lushest parks, 2 minutes walking distance to the train station, and I had an en-suite.
Catarina also appeared to be the perfect live-in landlady. She worked from the office a minimum of four days a week, and was a couple of months away from retirement and an extended stay with family in South America. I’d been wanting to leave a highly unhygienic flatshare for about eight months and I saw myself lodging with Catarina long-term.
There was only one rule that she insisted on before I signed the contract: absolutely no guests unless she was staying away. It seemed minor, but I soon found out there were more rules. Rules like I could only wash my laundry on a 28-minute setting once a week, but could have an extra load every fortnight.
Also, my dirty dishes couldn’t go in the dishwasher or be left on the drying rack once washed. Catarina preferred to see no trace of them. I was to use a separate microwave and no showers were allowed after 10pm.