Im fortyfive now, and Ive stopped letting anyone into my flat.
People who drop by think they own the placetheyre rude, bark orders and never make a hurry to leave.
I used to be the sort of bloke whod fling the doors open for anyone, but after I crossed forty that habit went out the window. Why bother? Its a nuisance dealing with those types of visitors.
My last birthday I celebrated at The Ivy on the Strand, and I loved every minute of it. From now on thats the planlet the restaurant do the work, and Ill explain why.
Throwing a party at home costs a fortune. Even a modest dinner requires a hefty outlay, and a Christmas gathering can double that. Guests bring tiny presents because times are tight, then linger until the early hours. Id rather unwind than spend the night scrubbing dishes and tidying up.
Now I sit in my Bristol flat waiting for no one. I clean and cook only when the mood strikes. After Christmas parties used to leave me exhausted and downcast; now, after the holidays, I can slip into a warm bath and hit the sack early.
Ive got plenty of free time and I use it wisely. Friends like Emily can pop over for tea, and Im not frantic about having biscuits ready. I speak my mind openly. When I want peace, I simply point to the door. It may not look pretty, but I dont lose sleep over itmy wellbeing comes first.
The strangest thing is that those who love wandering into other peoples homes never invite anyone into theirs. For them its easier to play host elsewhere than waste hours cleaning and cooking in their own place.
Do you welcome guests, or would you call yourself a hospitable sort?
