Why should I ever invite anyone into my house again? From what I’ve lived through, Ive finally decided to stop opening my front door to guests. And no, it isnt because Im pinching pennies. I live in a cosy terraced house in a leafy suburb of London, I have a garden, I have a proper kitchen and a table set for company.
So let me spell out the reasons why Ill no longer be the host. The bulk of my week disappears into cooking for others, and thenagaininto cleaning up after them.
I can cook, and Im good at it, but I cant pretend I enjoy spending half the day chained to the hob. For my husband James and our two kids, Oliver and Lucy, Ill conjure something new, but when it comes to guests, I refuse to waste the energy needed to keep everyone happy. When friends and relatives turn up, Im forced to surrender a full morning to the kitchen. Meanwhile, the whole house buzzes with laughter and relaxation while Im stuck stirring pots. Of course, the visitors never lend a handtheyre there to unwind, not to work. And when they finally drift out, Im left with hours of tidying up their trail.
I try to tidy while theyre still inside, but it never seems enough. They dont leave a heap of rubbish; theres no candy wrappers strewn across the floor, and the place doesnt look like a bin. Yet the order is gone. Sofas are pushed, chairs displaced, and I have to shove everything back where it belongs. When the cousins arrive with their children, toys litter every room, the linen needs changing, and stains appear on the tablecloth and drapes. Ive even had a child topple a vase from the windowsillthen I had to scoop up the soil, wash the floor, and replant the flower. Sometimes they jam door handles or break a lock.
Those are the kids. You cant keep an eye on every one of them, nor can you punish another parents child. Their own parents are off chatting with other guests.
So Im not only cooking; Im also restoring the whole house after their chaos.
Guests inevitably want a peek into our family life. I never do the laundryespecially not the delicateswhen I know relatives are due. I stash everything in cupboards, hoping they wont ask to see inside. Yet they do, prying open wardrobes as if theyre inspecting a museum. Some even scrutinise the kitchen as if they were on a culinary audit, which feels like an invasion of my private space. Our flat is tiny, packed with furniture, vases, and hanging plants, and every visitor plucks a sprig to take home.
Ive wondered whether the fault lies with mea selfish hostess who treats arrivals poorly. But after watching wave after wave of guests come and go, I realised I have no strength left to pour into cooking and then scrubbing the same walls again. Id rather meet for a coffee at the local cafe, take a walk in Hyde Park, and return to a clean home.
Thats why Im done inviting anyone over. The peace of a tidy house and a quiet evening is worth more than the fleeting smile of a guest.
