There are things one should be prepared for. Fire hazards, leaking toilets, temperatures in winter - these kinds of stuff. Instead, our British hosts tried to prepare us for something entirely different: Caitlyn.
The house had an adjacent apartment, which was currently under renovation to make it a future living place for kids and grandchildren. They hired a construction worker to do so, while they were away.
"It's always a bit weird meeting someone for the first time," Camilla said with a twinkle in her eyes. "Especially with her. I hope you will get along."
"Don't you worry," I answered. "We Germans have a long-standing history of getting along with other people."
Of course, this was a joke. As a general rule, I avoid people. The more I could avoid, the better. But I wasn't going to advertise that fact.
Then we met Caitlyn. She stood on the balcony above with the sun behind her. We were blinded by the sight and had to shield our eyes. She stood as tall as me with broader shoulders and a slimmer waist. Her erratic gray hair fluttered in the wind like the mane of a mule. A golden bracelet adorned her right wrist, a small silver watch her left. She had hands massive as maulers that could flatten granite stones with a single slap.
"Ooooh," she squeaked in a high-pitched voice and came down to meet us. "Isn't it just lovely to meet you, kids?"
I worked for a decade in sales and learned to observe people and make quick assessments of them. Or more simply put: I'm good at judging.
Within these few seconds I learned several things:
First, she's British. Not the kind of Brit you meet on the beach, sunburned, without teeth and empty beer cans around, but the ones from TV show dramas. Slightly ostentatious, with a touch of overdramatization for good measure, totally ignorant of our age and without an idea that we weren't her children.
Also, she was a man. Or at least had been. I was sure of it, despite the prominent and quite literally outstanding pair of fine-shaped, D-cupped boobs.
The button-up shirt covering them was stretched to the limit and barely hanging in, as she still stood straight with shoulders back and chest pumped outwards like a male peacock. Clean-shaven and with a touch of make-up she looked anything between forty and seventy, which could either be a great compliment or a dire insult.
Her ever-present companion was a dirty white Labrador the size of a small truck who barked and whined to meet the newcomers and get petted. He (never) listened to the name Oy.
”I wanted a name that’s easy to yell at the dog.”
It only took a few days of acclimatization to warm up and find out she was a well of information when it came to conspiracy theories.
Needless to say, I had a lot of fun gaslighting any topic into a discussion about governmental control, technological warfare, and doomsday preparation.
One day, we stood idly around and marveled at the beautiful weather. Only a sliver of stream left behind from a plane obscured the perfectly blue sky.
"Spraying their chemicals again, these bloody bastards," Caitlyn said without preamble. I looked at her baffled.
"Who is doing what?"
"The chemtrails," she pointed up. "They're doing this on purpose. They want to sterilize us."
"Considering the planet's overpopulation it hasn't been effective," I said.
"That's what they're telling us. You shouldn't believe everything you see on the news."
I studied her expression for an educated guess if she truly believed what she was saying or if she was just bullshitting me the way I oftentimes did.
I stepped closer and lowered my voice as if we were now conspiring against them. Whoever they were.
"Tell me: how do these chemtrails work?" I asked.
"What do you think they work?" She asked back, ready to smash my knowledge to the ground and pee on it.
"I'm not a scientist," I said, "but I believe it has something to do with exhaust gases, temperature dropping behind the engine plume, and creating enough humidity to form condensation." I shrugged. "Something along these lines."
"Then how do you explain this? She had her phone already unlocked and ready to provide real scientific evidence. There was a photo of a blue sky, not unlike ours, with a contrail that suddenly stopped and started again.
"Temperature fluctuations?"
She snorted and laughed without humor. "That happens when a bloody tank is empty and they switch to another!"
"Aah," I murmured and nodded in agreement. "And all airlines contribute to this scheme?"
"All of them!" She yelled and threw her hands above her head, her own words a curse upon the world that no one would believe.
"There are thousands of airlines all over the world, with millions of employees from high to low paying jobs and everyone keeps their mouths shut about these ungodly doings?"
"God," she said and turned around, "has nothing to do with it."
"Who then?" I called after her as she left into the apartment where she worked. "Is it the Queen, Caitlyn? Tell me, is it the Queen?"
Want to binge-read through the Housesitter’s diary?