There are people who, upon stepping into someone else’s house, seem to forget they’re guests at all. They become oddly demanding, offering unsolicited advice about the rearrangement of furniture or the seasoning of soup, and show little desire to head home. The clock ticks in bizarre zigzags, their departure never quite materialising.
I was once the embodiment of British hospitality, eagerly polishing glasses and fluffing cushions. But as the years slipped into a haze beyond forty, I grew weary and shut my doors to the endless parade of visitors. Why ever would I invite such an intrusion? The whole experience unravels in a surreal tangle of annoyance.
My last birthday stretched its wings in a London restaurant, where the tables glowed with candlelight and the desserts felt whipped up by woodland spirits. I adored every whimsical moment. From now on, thats where Ill let birthdays find me, far away from the dreamlike chaos of a house party.
You see, hosting a gathering beneath my own roof is a peculiar expense. Even an ordinary supper beckons for a handful of pounds to flutter away like moths. The price of a festive Christmas do at home might spiral into a strange sum that gives you chills. Guests drift in with modest little giftsperhaps a box of shortbread or a paperbackand remind you that the times are tough. They linger well past midnight, laughter curling through the halls, while I yearn for solitude, not an avalanche of dishes and crumbs.
Now, my flat is a world of my own. I dust and cook when the mood strikes. I remember how, after past Christmases, I’d wake to a house wearied and dim, my spirit sagging under the weight of half-eaten mince pies. These days, after Christmas, I soak in a bath scented with lavender, then slip quietly into bed as the moon blends with the pale morning.
All my spare hours are mine, used wisely in daydreams or reading. Friends drop by for tea, and if the biscuit tin is empty, I feel no shame. My thoughts, once buttoned-up and proper, now tumble out freely. If I desire peace, I gesture mysteriously toward the door. It may seem abrupt, but I dont worry about appearances. My comfort blooms first and foremost.
Strangest of all, those who love to bask in others’ homes never seem to open their own to visitors. Its easier for them to soak up mirth while leaving washing up to someone else, delighting in the surreal freedom of someone else’s living room without ever fussing over their own carpet stains.
Do you entertain guests beneath your roof? Can you truly call yourself hospitable? Or is your home, like mine, a peculiar sanctuary, ruled by your own peculiar logic?
