She seemed a homely sort of woman and I needed a tenant. The studio apartment in the inner city had been vacant for weeks. The area regularly featured in court reports.

Five flights up and no lift did not endear itself to young trendies - a step too far for young professionals whose idea of slumming was tee-shirt and jeans at weekend.

So I gave the homely woman the place on a monthly rent. I didn't ask for references, because something told me not to - she explained she was back from Birmingham and waiting for a house from the corporation.

Her children would join her when that came through . . .

She paid the deposit no problem, peeling off from a wad of notes. When I asked what bed she would like, single or double, she said she'd be alright with the Futon, which was a couch by day and opened into a bed (at risk of finger amputation).

She paid on time, never gave me hassle and left the rent in an envelope for me to pick up in a city centre pub. Crisp notes, usually, fresh from the ATM. The barman handed me the envelope without comment.

Some months into her tenancy, the management company of the block got on to me, relaying complaints from another occupant.

The worry was not of noise or unruly behaviour. Rather a regular stream of male visitors to my tenant - "all hours of the day and night".

I record, without comment, that the complainant was a single lady in her forties who had for many years worked for an insurance company and was saving to move out of the area.

I resisted until the management company wrote to me, remitting a copy of the lease, in which among other activities, I had undertaken not to allow executions or political meetings to be held on my premises, nor for its use for "immoral purposes". (Did that preclude a gathering of TDs and developers, folks?)

With a heavy heart I visited my tenant, without warning. She asked on the intercom if I had an appointment, so I explained I was the landlord and would like to come in. She suggested I come back in an hour.

Legally she could have asked for 24 hours notice, but I think she was used to knowing when the game was up . . . The place seemed bathed in a red glow, red cushions, red velvet curtains into the shower and a pleasant smell of incense. We smiled while we talked.

I told her of the complaints. She said she had wondered how long before she was rumbled.

I asked could she reduce the number of clients or maybe confine them to daytime, when most of the other tenants were at work . . .

She said she needed to make a lot of money in a short time, to buy her own place.

We agreed a time-scale for her to find other accommodation. I promised to look up apartments in a more "upmarket" part of town, where people tended to mind their own business more . . .

I saw her in a car-park recently, looking quite practical, loading shopping into a very expensive 4 x 4. I gave a thought for all the daytime men who laboured up the five flights for a bit of stolen pleasure, who came down much lighter of heart and wallet.

Presumably they are going up by lift now, but I did not dwell on it - I am only a Landlord.