24October2025 Diary
Ive lately decided that Ill stop inviting anyone over to our house. It isnt because Im stingy or trying to save a few quid; I live in a semidetached on the edge of Manchester, I have a decent garden, and theres always something on the table to set out.
The point, though, is that entertaining guests costs far more than the price tag of a meal. I spend a great deal of time cooking for them, and then I have to tidy up afterward. I do enjoy cooking Im rather good at it but I wont spend half the day slaving over the hob just to make everyone happy. For my husband, Tom, and my two kids, Oliver and Grace, Im happy to experiment with new recipes, but when its guests Im forced to waste energy just to keep the peace.
When friends or relatives pop round, I have no choice but to be in the kitchen from the moment they arrive until theyre ready to leave. It drives me mad watching everyone else relax and have a laugh while Im stuck at the stove. Of course they dont pitch in; theyre there to unwind, not to help. And once theyre gone Im left with another few hours of clearing the aftermath.
I try to tidy as theyre still in the house, but it never seems enough. They dont leave piles of rubbish or candy wrappers strewn about, but the order they bring with them is gone. Sofas get shuffled, cushions end up on the floor, and the childrens toys scatter across every room. Bed linen needs changing, there are smudges on the tablecloth and the curtains, and on one occasion a vase from the windowsill was knocked over. We had to sweep up the soil, wash the floor, and replant the begonias. Sometimes they even manage to jam a door latch or loosen a cupboard handle.
Kids will be kids, and theres only so much you can watch over. Their parents are busy chatting with other guests, so I end up cleaning not just after the adults but also after the little rascals. I never do a load of laundry when I know we have visitors no towels, no underwear and I hide the messier bits in cupboards. Yet the guests always ask to see inside, poking around the pantry and poking at the kitchen like theyre on a homeinspection. It feels invasive, a breach of our private space. Our flat is tiny, packed with furniture and a few potted plants, and it seems every visitor wants to tug a sprig from a hanging geranium as a souvenir.
At first I wondered whether I was the problem perhaps Im just a poor host. But after counting the number of people who have come through our front door, I realized I simply dont have the stamina to cook, clean, and keep the house looking presentable for each visit. Id rather meet a mate for a coffee down the high street, take the kids for a walk in Heaton Park, and return to a tidy home.
Lesson learned: hospitality is best served in moderation. Its fine to share a cuppa or a stroll, but Ill keep my home a sanctuary for my family rather than a revolving door for endless guests.
