Doing Air BnB is all very well ... unless you live in a home that’s a biohazard

How do self-employed people manage the no income thing if they stop working for any reason, asks Suzanne Harrington

Obviously, we never get sick. But we do need the occasional holiday — so how does that work? How do you go away without coming home to your house being repossessed?

“Do Air BnB,” says a friend who does Air BnB. She lives in an airy, uncluttered house with a small Schnauzer. I live in functioning mayhem with a multitude of kids, dogs and lodgers. So I do an experiment — I look around my house through the eyes of an imaginary Air BnB guest. Within moments, I am breathing into a paper bag as the full horror sinks in. It’s like one of those Channel 5 documentaries where they have to send in the team with the industrial bin liners and latex gloves.

Still, with any luck maybe nobody will want to come. I post a vague ad about a “Cheerful Family Home”, although what I mean are other words that start with ‘ch-’ — like chaotic. Or challenging. But because it’s August and the house is by the sea, people do want to come. Quite a few people want to come. Three different lots of people, who want to sleep in my “cheerful” house. Welcome to the new sharing economy.

Clearly those carefully staged photos of artfully arranged cushions and a vase of half dead flowers I uploaded from my phone did the trick — but what about when the real guests arrive to the reality of my wonky, dusty, dog-chewed, battered house, populated by the kind of people — teenagers — who think it’s normal to shove crisp packets and orange peel under the sofa?

An inventory is taken. Although my friend mostly conceals her panic, she makes a few suggestions. Quite a few suggestions. They require the robust use of strimmers, lawnmowers, and hedge cutters. Trips to Ikea. Trips to B&Q. Trips to the tip. The purchase of industrial cleaning products. Bits of the house are hastily painted over, and cupboards are shoved full of detritus — stuff that we need, but that guests don’t need to see. Like dog beds and wellies and plastic bags full of plastic bags.

With just a few nights to go before our departure, I lie awake making lists about the holiday — their holiday, not mine. I am doing bedding maths in my head at 4am, multiplying guests by duvet covers, divided by arrival and departure dates, minus pillow cases. I already feel judged by people I will never meet. I worry they will trash my house, not in the traditional sense, but in online reviews.

It all comes together with what Antipodeans call a work bee, which is like a spelling bee, but more productive. The house gets a makeover, not quite elevating it to Elle Décor standards, but at least it’s no longer a biohazard. We work all day, scrubbing, camouflaging, disguising. People keep telling me I look a bit worn out. As though I could do with a holiday.