Zebedee and Dylan

The next lot of tenants were a lovely couple in their mid twenties who had met at Falmouth art college. She was a talented artist and, like Zebedee, full of ideas, get up and go. He was more Dylan – laid back to the point of falling over – and yes he played the guitar as well.

They were together for several years, but had to hide the fact when her parents came to visit. He was a vicar and very strict on sexual matters.

‘Do you realise,’ said Himself one day. ‘We have underage sex upstairs (the very young lovers), overage sex downstairs (that’s us – he’d just had his 65th birthday) and sex with a vicar’s daughter in the middle flat.’

And there’s no answer to that.

They were both on benefits for a while but she decided she had to do something else (other than painting) to earn money and I saw an ad for a gardener wanted several days a week. She was delighted, went to learn the business with an older fellow and was soon working full time. Not sure the vicar saw that as a suitable occupation for his daughter, either, but perhaps that was why she did it.

All went well – she worked her butt off while he did – well, not very much apart from playing endless scales on the guitar and occasionally giving the odd lesson, but as his standard wasn’t up to much, I can only hope he was a better teacher than player.

Then at about eight o’clock one morning, she arrived on the doorstep in tears. It was all over, she said. She couldn’t live with him any more and had to move out. I’m not sure what caused this sudden departure, but having dispensed tea, sympathy and hugs, she left, in more tears.

He stayed on for a while but couldn’t afford the rent by himself and decided he was going to move out as well. Of course it was almost beyond him to pick up a paper and find somewhere, so I had to physically put the paper in front of him and make him look, then ring up places. Finally he found somewhere, gave me a moving date – and then realised that he and she had to redecorate the place: when they moved in they asked if they could paint the place and we said yes, as long as they painted it back again when they moved out.

Panic. They finished painting the day the before the new tenants were due to arrive, so the paint was still wet. And all her stuff was still in the garage. I had to phone her I don’t know how many times to ask her to collect her stuff before the next lot arrived. As it happened, she finally arrived to collect it literally as the next lot moved in. Her excuse? She had a hangover.

In this instance, we bent over backwards to help both of them and felt decidedly let down by the end of it all. Another lesson – don’t get too involved with tenants. This is a business.