Orna Mulcahy on people we all know
Ciaran rues the day that Gunther, the Swiss banker, was recalled to head office, after two blameless years as his tenant. It's true what they say about the Swiss - they are very clean. Gunther worked such long hours and spent so much time outside the country that he barely made an impression on the new Odearest mattress; after he was gone, the instructions for the oven were still inside, wrapped in plastic, plus he'd left a nice cashmere sweater and a puzzling number of umbrellas behind, which came in handy.
Sadly though, obsessive compulsive Gunther and his standing order are just memories and instead Ciaran has the Young Professionals from the small ads. It's not the same thing at all. They're an awful whingy pair, always calling him on the mobile - why did he ever give them the number - to complain about the central heating, or to say that they've lost another zapper for the electric gates, at €70 a pop. Now they want him to pay their bin charge and are threatening to take if off the rent, the nerve of them.
Then he has just had a snotty letter from the management committee about clothes on the balcony and when he went round yesterday to check, it did look a bit like the back streets of Naples, up there on the third floor. Come to think of it, the whole place is a bit down-at-heel, considering the services charges he's paying, and all those bars and grilles on the lower windows make it look a bit like a prison. Worse, when he lets himself in - well, it is his flat - he's shocked at the state of the place. Willie Bermingham would have been shocked. What sort of people live like that, with clothes all over the place and cartons of curry under the Meadows and Byrne armchairs that Louise spent a long time choosing and co-ordinating, and hairballs the size of tumbleweed under the bed.
What kind of Young Professionals are they anyway? He's bit worried by the rows and rows of sci-fi books and, God, they have a lot of computers. Are they weird, geeky IT-types doing some credit card scam? They could be in the white slave trade for all he really knows about them. Oh, come back Gunther. Naturally, the plant in the corner has died, and he's glad that Louise isn't here to see the kitchen - she'd flip at the state of the splashbacks, and those skid marks on the floor are very odd - were they pulling a body by the heels or what. They're not getting their deposit back, that's for sure. But come to think of it, he didn't actually get a deposit from them. Ciaran is feeling very hard done by as he lets himself out of the apartment, thinking of all the years he spent in rented accommodation in Rathmines, keeping the place spic and span and paying off the mortgage for that big fat garda. It doesn't help to see the cluster of To Let signs outside the building. Maybe he's not cut out to be a landlord after all.