I’m 45 years old. And I no longer have guests in my home.
Some people, when they visit, seem to forget they’re guests at all. They’re rude, dish out unsolicited advice, and are in no rush to make their way home.
I used to be terribly hospitable, but that changed rather swiftly. After I crossed the threshold of forty, I stopped inviting people over. Why on earth would I want the bother? Hosting those sorts of guests is just too irritating.
My last birthday was celebrated in a cosy pub. I absolutely loved it that’s the way I’ll do it henceforth. Let me explain why.
Throwing a party at home is dearly expensive. Even a run-of-the-mill dinner can set you back a hefty sum in pounds. If you’re planning a Christmas gathering, the bill can be downright frightening. Guests show up with modest little gifts fair enough, times are tough for everyone. Then they linger late into the night. All I really want is to put my feet up, not spend half the night tackling a mountain of washing up and putting the house to rights.
I expect no one within the walls of my flat. I clean and cook when it suits me. I used to feel utterly knackered and down in the dumps after Christmas dos at mine. Now, after Christmas, I can run a hot bath and catch an early night, undisturbed.
I’ve gained so much free time and use it wisely. My friends might pop round for a cuppa, but I don’t fret about the cupboards being bare. These days, I’m honest about what I want. If I’m feeling spent and want a quiet evening, I make it clear it’s time to call it a day. That might sound a bit off, but I don’t lose sleep over it. My own comfort comes first, these days.
The most astonishing bit is how the folks who are happy enough to descend upon other people’s homes never seem to invite anyone back to theirs. It’s much easier for them to enjoy themselves on someone else’s patch, no tidying up or slaving over a hot stove required.
Do you open your home to guests? Would you call yourself a hospitable person?
