I, the Bitch.

'Tis amazing how many locals acquire foreign accents when up to nonsense. Three arrive from the 'States'.

With thirty two years of combined hostel-running experience and much advice, I asked:

"What must I do with the items guests leave behind?"

"If they do not contact you within in a month take their things to the welfare," they all nod in agreement.

After they leave I open the wardrobe and find a bag of wet smelly clothing, mouldy bread and a TV.

I 'phone them. Collection is arranged for the following day. Three days go by. I have dumped their clothing in the garden shed.

I 'phone again and tell them I am dropping off their belongings at the welfare.

Two hours later they arrive:

"You are a bitch," I am told, "and you can give us petrol money to travel back to Pretoria."

The nerve.

Frank, rings the doorbell: "I want to stay for the night. The wife, the bitch threw me out. I will tell you the whole story."

He starts unpacking his car. Not even a rock star has so much luggage. There is a microwave oven and a TV. There was even a desk and a chair.

"This is not going to work," I tell him.

"All you women are bitches," he replies.

Another local, wearing a turban, asks for accommodation for four, from the Middle East for a week.

"But, I would like to inspect the premises first," he demands.

"Why?" I ask, "the place is not for sale."

"My business associates are very fussy about cleanliness and security. They can bath together, eat together and work together, but as their countries are at war they cannot sleep together. Or, with anyone else, he continues.

"This is a backpackers hostel," I say, "with beds in dorm rooms."

"They'll need a dorm room each but I will only pay for one bed."

"And, if I have other guests, what then?" I say.

"Well, you do not have any other guests this morning, do you?" he replies smugly.

"Yes, I do. They are hanging from a hook behind the door," I say.

As he leaves, he mumbles: "Bitch!"