Did you enjoy your stay?

I'm not telling you

SEASIDE - available now!

We went away for a few days over Easter, just to the seaside, to the best ice-cream I can get to via a train (always thinking of pudding when booking a holiday). The Airbnb we stayed in was fine, just fine. It had white walls, pictures of the sea and blue and white striped linen, so they had really captured the ‘near the seaside vibe’ - but the beds were lumpy and the kitchen was a bit dirty - it was fine, I mean it was FINE, but just yeah, life is expensive these days, and so little things stand out more, like grease on a white gas hob (of which there was lots.)

Once we got home, my husband said, ‘You should mention how dirty it was on the review.’ ‘Hmm…’, I said, thinking, I probably won’t do that because… I’m scared? I popped that feeling into the top hat that lives in the attic of my brain and thought no more about it, as is the intention of popping things in the top hat.

just me wearing the hat on a beach before popping back in the attic. (Photo by Jared Weiss on Unsplash)

That very next day, Airbnb, efficient as ever, emailed me to let me know it was time to review the fine seaside cottage. I took a deep breath, and I wrote the review. I was fair, I said the nice things about the place (bright and airy, good location), then I mentioned the rubbish things, (dirty, cold, had only one pan etc.) and then ended with how helpful Mr. Host had been. A classic shit sandwich, encouraging to him, so he wouldn’t give up, but enough truth to hopefully improve future stays. The big raspberry coloured button glowed SUBMIT at me. I hovered… I couldn’t do this to Mr.Host.

What if he’s new to Airbnb? What if he’s tried so hard to get this cottage to be his side quest, but just that day he couldn’t get it together? What if I’m the review that tanks him, that makes think, I need to give this up, go back to financial investment HR, Gary was right, it’s too hard to do this alongside a full time job without letting standards slip? What if my phrase, ‘I would add, the kitchen is not well stocked equipment wise.’ chills him to the bone and burns onto his retina. Every time he thinks about trying to run another airbnb, he thinks to himself, but I couldn’t stock that kitchen, how can I leave my job and make this my life?

How can I, someone who has never Airbnb’ed, who doesn’t understand what it’s like to go into the arena of the Airbnb vulnerability coliseum (pretty sure that’s the people Brene was talking about), judge Mr. Host? I mean sure, I know from light searching he actually owns a lot of cottages in that street and he uses a cleaning company, that he’s clearly not paying enough as we met them struggling to get it all done in not enough time, YES I know that, but who am I to judge him?

I disagree, but I am pleased you expressed yourself via the medium of a wooden sign and I hope someone will pay £11 for this - it won’t be me today sadly.

I think the problem is (sure, I know the problem is an overactive imagination and people pleasing but indulge me..) when you’ve been reviewed in your life a part of you, when asked to review someone else publicly, freezes. I know what it feels like to be judged, to be sized up for market and shouted across the town square, “despite last years’s show success, this feels far more rushed and Lloyd is lucky the audience were on her side after a tricky early exit from surprise audience member, Nancy Del’olio¹”. Any performer will tell you, the good reviews get hung up in the dusty wardrobe in the attic of your mind, yes it’s nice they’re in there, but you can’t remember exactly what they said - the negative ones however are framed and hung downstairs in the living room (of your house mind.)²

Must we review every experience? Must everyone have a ‘hot take’? If I found a portal to Hell in the downstairs bathroom, I’d definitely mention it, but aside from that, the cottage was fine, it didn’t make me happy; eating ice-cream on the beach whilst my kids tried to dig holes in the sand big enough to sit in did, hearing the waves and shoving my hand in my husband’s coat pocket to keep myself warm did, breathing non-London air for four days did. Can I sum this up in an 1000 word box? No. So, the tab remains open on the browser and I stare at my words and wonder if I’m overthinking this, just a little...³

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yeah nice wallpaper from House of Hackney, like the true elder millennial that I am.

I did do some reading whilst on my lovely holiday (4 stars, one meltdown from each child a day, but the ice-cream was great). I’ve discussed her greatness on Sara and Cariad Weirdos Book Club before, but I read Annie Ernaux’s A Woman’s Story, which was excellent. If you haven’t read her before, she’s such a sublime and fine writer, it’s like drinking excellent wine for the first time and you didn’t realise words could do that and not just give you a headache.

I also re-read (admittedly, last time I read it I was seven) Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild, which still really stands up. Yep, it’s written in 1936, so there are a few problematic statements, but compared to the usual minefield of reading a kids book pre-1940, it was a delight. Even my graphic novel obsessed eight-year-old daughter loved it.

And yes….these are reviews. Fully aware of my own hypocrisy, I will try to only tell you about good things that I have loved, that I feel qualified to judge, to save you from the all the other noise that’s already out there.

1. She walked out of my Edinburgh show in 2013 with her quite sizeable entourage. Maybe this is a story for another ‘stack… I was dressed as a Moomin at the time.

2. You’ve really got to have the same idea as I have, that your head is a house, and the mouth is the door and hallway, then you go upstairs (eyes are the bedroom windows), up into the forehead (attic), which I think is a pretty standard and normal way of viewing your head and face.

3. Yep, yep, aware I am.