Help! My friends want to use my office as a guest house

This is my monthly column as it appeared in The Guardian on Friday May 26, 2006. (You can read it in its original form here.)

To avoid legal action many films and novels carry a disclaimer saying that any resemblance between the fictional characters and real people is purely coincidental. This column needs a similar cop-out. Everything in it is apocryphal and is not intended to upset my friends and relatives. Honest.

You see this is the time when phone calls and emails to your little piece of paradise signal the start of summer. Suddenly, forgotten aunties and vague acquaintances offer to visit. You may have noticed that I said "offer"; that's because their messages are phrased in such a way that it does sound as if it's them that's doing the favour.

They're concerned that you might feel lonely and isolated when you're all those miles away. Sometimes they're not wrong. But equally, phone calls are at least a partial substitute for their physical presence. But it's amazing how hard it is for people to break the psychological cost barrier on overseas calls. They're not expensive any more. Really. You can phone just about anywhere in the world for a few pence a minute, usually for less than the cost of a UK mobile call. In fact, thanks to internet telephony, it can cost nothing.

Equally, for better or worse, there are few products from home that you can't buy here in Ibiza. If I wanted Marmite, Heinz Salad Cream, tasteless sliced bread, Tetley's tea or just about any of the bizarre flavours that Brits seem to miss, I could buy most of them from the local supermarket. They don't need to be produced from visitors' suitcases as if they were some sort of illicit contraband.

There are, of course, certain things you can't get hold of so easily. Some of the veggies on the island, for instance, will almost forget their vows of non-violence in their desire to get hold of Quorn products. And one friend of mine tried and failed to bring a takeaway curry as hand luggage on her easyJet flight. As for me, one or preferably more packets of Stockan's thick oatcakes from Orkney is the way to my heart, but it's not a realistic alternative to paying for a hotel room.

You see in theory I've got enough space in my house to put several people up. In practice, it's not so easy. I work in the same way as probably most freelances with a spare bedroom turned into an office. Of course it is possible to return the room to its original purpose and it's probably a good discipline for me to empty, clean and tidy it once in a while. But I still have to find somewhere to rest my keyboard.

I did try working on my laptop for almost two weeks, moving round my then apartment in an attempt to find periods of tranquillity. It didn't stop me meeting my every deadline, but there were occasions when I'd have happily throttled my guests. That's partly, I'll admit, because I do work strange and erratic hours.

This may not be the most organised and rational way of getting things done, but habits die hard. Equally, I find it hard to be rude and I'm easily distracted. Actually, the latter's probably more true, but either way I find it hard to ignore guests - even ones, heaven forbid, that I don't like.

I love sharing my knowledge of Ibiza and showing people everything from my favourite unspoilt beaches to the best club nights and, sometimes, getting them in for free. Unfortunately, I can't take the whole summer off to do it.

Socially, it's great living in a place where the weekend starts at the end of June and carries on until September. But, because my work is mostly UK-based, my weekend's still Saturday and Sunday or, on rare occasions, Friday night to Monday morning. My visitors' weekend starts the moment they step off the plane.

In the end the only real solution is to offer the reply to friends and relatives perfected by my mate Paul. "Yes, we'd love to see you. There's a really nice hotel just down the road."