I’m 65, and I can’t stand when someone comes to my house.
People might judge me, but I don’t care what they think. Don’t get the wrong idea—I don’t hate people or my friends—not at all. I just can’t bear the thought of someone crossing the threshold of my home. We can meet up anywhere else—at the park, on the street, or at someone else’s place, but not at mine. I’ve had enough, and that’s that.
I recently turned 65, and everything has changed since then. Just a couple of years ago, I was ready to open my home’s doors in a small town near Manchester to anyone who wanted to come by. But now, the mere thought of entertaining guests makes me tremble with annoyance. After the last get-together, I spent two days cleaning the house, as if a tornado had blown through. Before that, I’d spent the whole day in the kitchen, preparing mountains of food and then dealing with the chaos that followed. Why do I need this? I don’t want to spend my life doing this anymore.
Thinking back to those times makes me feel a deep sense of exhaustion and longing. A week before guests would come over, I’d start a full-on cleaning spree: washing windows, scrubbing floors, cleaning every corner. Then I’d rack my brain, trying to figure out what to serve to please everyone. Oh, and those heavy shopping bags! Hauling them up to my fourth-floor flat, sweating and cursing under my breath. Then the guests arrive—and it starts. Serve everyone, make sure the plates are full, that there’s enough for everyone, everything shining. Bring this, take that, serve this, clear that—you’re a chef, a server, a dishwasher, and a cleaner all rolled into one. Your feet ache, your back hurts, and you can’t even sit down to have a proper conversation because someone always needs something.
And for what? To collapse in exhaustion, staring at the wrecked kitchen? I’ve had it up to here. Why torture myself when there are people who can do it all better and faster for money? Now, all celebrations, meet-ups, and gatherings happen in cafes or restaurants. It’s cheaper, easier, and less soul-draining. After dinner, there’s nothing to clean up or pack away—you just head home, crawl into bed, and sleep with a clear conscience.
I’m all for living actively now, not wilting away in the four walls. We already spend too much time at home, and meeting friends elsewhere has become rare, almost a luxury. Everyone has work, responsibilities, and busy lives—who finds time to just sit and chat? I’ve realized that I’ve spent a lifetime working tirelessly—for family, for children, for others. And now, I want time for myself, for my peace.
I’ve got a new habit: during my lunch break, I call my friend Nina and we go to a nearby cafe where they serve desserts to die for. Why didn’t I do this before? I’m amazed at myself—how many years have I wasted, stuck in the home routine!
I think every woman will understand. Just mentioning hosting guests at home, and your head starts throbbing with thoughts: what to cook, how to clean, how to impress? It’s not joy; it’s a burden. Of course, if a friend drops by for five minutes, I won’t chase her away—I’ll brew some tea, and we’ll chat. But it’s far better to arrange beforehand and meet in a cozy coffee shop. It’s become my salvation, my little happiness.
I tell all women this: don’t be afraid that you’ll spend a fortune in a restaurant. You’ll spend more at home—not just in pounds, but in nerves and health. I’ve calculated: on groceries, cleaning, the time that goes nowhere—it’s more expensive than a bill at a café. Most importantly, you’ll preserve yourself. At 65, I’ve finally realized that life is not just a duty to others, but also a right to rest, to ease, to freedom from other people’s expectations. And I’m done opening my door to those who want to turn my home into a battleground for cleanliness and order. That’s enough for me.
