We were invited to a housewarming, and it left us stunned—the kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it.
Not long ago, my wife and I received an invitation from my old friend Edward: he and his wife had moved into a new rented flat in Manchester and decided to celebrate. A happy occasion, we thought, so we gladly accepted, bringing a gift and good spirits.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering—why hadn’t they bought their own home by now? They’d been together eight years, no children, both working: he a taxi driver, she a manicurist at a salon. Surely in all that time they could have at least secured a mortgage? But then, to each their own.
We arrived at the building with a bottle of champagne and a neatly wrapped gift—a set of fine crystal glasses. Edward’s wife, Daisy, greeted us. She wore an evening dress and towering heels that sank into the worn-out linoleum, leaving deep dents. The contrast was striking—fancy attire fit for a restaurant, set against peeling walls and a dreary hallway.
The flat itself felt neglected—dust on the side tables, grit on the floor as if their terrier, Charlie, had just trotted in from a muddy walk. I tried not to dwell on it—we weren’t there to inspect, after all, but to visit.
I headed to the kitchen to set our gift on the table, and what I saw struck me like a slap. I froze in the doorway, utterly dumbfounded.
The kitchen table looked as though someone had battled the end of days upon it. Heaps of rubbish mixed with scraps of food—greasy napkins, chicken bones, half-empty jars of seasoning, a rotting apple, crumbled biscuits. At the centre sat an old tub of clotted cream, its contents sporting a sickly green hue. Clearly forgotten.
Dirty mugs cluttered the mess—one with a hardened tea bag stuck to its side. It seemed no one had tidied in days. This wasn’t just a bit of untidiness—it was outright squalor.
My wife sighed softly and murmured,
“Shall we help them clean?”
Daisy nodded.
“Oh, yes, please—we just didn’t have time…”
My wife rolled up her sleeves, and soon the table at least looked less dire. But the discomfort lingered. I felt uneasy—for them, for us. How could two grown adults, no children, working respectable jobs, let their home fall into such a state?
True, everyone has busy stretches, days when chores go undone. But this was something else—a neglect built up over weeks.
We sat down to eat. The spread was meagre—sliced cheese, crisps, whatever they’d grabbed from the shop on the way home. My appetite vanished, though I’d arrived hungry. We sipped our drinks politely, then made our excuses and left early.
On the walk back, my wife and I were quiet. After a while, she finally said,
“I couldn’t last a day living like that.”
Who’s to say how others should live? It’s not my place to judge. But one thing was clear: even the finest gift loses its meaning when placed in the middle of chaos and disregard.
Would you have stayed at a party like that?
