An Airbnb story straight from the horse’s mouth

Here is how some washing-up resulted in the sale of a horse. Read this, then watch Black Mirror’s Nosedive on YouTube. The similarities are uncanny, writes Suzanne Harrington. 

So. The Airbnb guests arrive. After the last lot, whose private feedback I requested to optimise future visits (see, I’m using words like ‘optimise’, so sucked-in am I to the anxious self-curation of the gig economy, the craven people-pleasing), I have taken further steps to enhance user experience. (Shoot me now). On the advice of the last guests, I’ve painted the front door, and installed a jolly pink trough of dahlias to distract from the overall Steptoe & Son aesthetic.

I put sachets of hot chocolate in the room they’d be sleeping in. (MY room. Not that I’m territorial or anything). And not just one kind of hot chocolate, but several — Galaxy, Maltesers, Aero — plus green tea, black tea, mint tea and two kinds of coffee. A handwritten welcome note with a smiley face on it. Extra pillows. A wifi booster and a packet of chili fucking cashews.