Because the house is booked via an agency, we have no say over who arrives – and we dread parties of young men. It's a terrible (and sexist) cliché, but experience suggests that in a mixed group, the girls will keep the mess in check. The last male group inexplicably burned a hole in the bottom of the wooden fruitbowl.
I found it in a hedge, about half a mile down the lane, and when my husband asked them, politely, what might have happened, they stammered something about trying to scare insects away. It was only when we found the bundle of giant shisha pipe brushes they'd left behind that we realised they'd been using it as a pipe stand.
They were easy, however, compared to the group that roared up in a blacked-out van and unloaded a turntable and speakers that wouldn't look out of place at Coachella.
Two days later, we had a call from an elderly neighbour, a quarter of a mile away. "There seems to be some terribly loud music. In your house. Could you have a word…?"
The guests had enjoyed a miniature festival – along with copious amounts of weed, judging from the amount of discarded cardboard stubs we found later.
It still wasn't quite as bad as the guests who smuggled in two French bulldogs, regardless of our strict (and very clear) 'no pets' policy. We found out because of the photos they later posted on our Facebook page – and the vast amount of dog hair (and less savoury leavings) on the sheets.
Sheets are one of the biggest problems. They're all (expensive) Egyptian cotton, and the huge bundle goes to the laundry weekly. Stripping beds is the first thing we do after the guests leave at 10am on a Saturday – and it's our first chance to discover just how much fake tan has been used that week.
Whatever's in the formula, the FBI should use it to mark banknotes - because it never comes out. The hot tub is also often, at the end of the week, a pan of foaming, fake-tan soup that requires two hours of violent scrubbing before it's ready for the next guests.
And sadly, there is no crack team of cleaners standing by. It's entirely down to the two of us to clean the property from top to bottom every single week, with a window of six hours - and by 3pm we resemble the ending of Changing Rooms, frantically scuttling about with vacuum cleaners, polishing pictures and plumping cushions.
The worst part is the bathrooms. Older men are not always, let's say, entirely accurate when it comes to a midnight pee. Children seemingly think that toothpaste is for decorating basins. Women leave shower plugholes clogged with ropes of hair that require extracting, like strings of flags from a magician's pocket.
And if you're ever vacating a holiday home, and wondering what's acceptable to leave in the fridge, do chuck out that half-eaten curry and drawer full of veg on the turn. We never say: 'How generous, they've left a giant, half-used bottle of salad cream!' It simply adds to our work, as we scrape and recycle and wash it all away.
It's not all bad though. Sometimes, not only do guests leave it gleaming - stripping the beds and letting us know when things are broken - they also give us a thank you card.
That's a parting gift we appreciate far more than a discarded trainer and a half-full fridge.
The writer is using a pseudonym
