“This is too much!”—Emma refused to host the guests who turned her flat into a free boarding house.
Sometimes life throws situations so absurd they feel like scenes from a sitcom—except they’re only funny to everyone else. For the person living it, there’s nothing amusing or easy about it. That’s exactly the kind of story my neighbour, Emma, recently shared with me—a delicate, soft-spoken woman in her mid-thirties. On the surface, the picture of poise, but as it turns out, even people like her have their limits.
She used to live in Manchester, working at a local library and mingling in a circle of mutual friends—a mixed but good-natured bunch. One of them was James, a cheerful bloke with a habit of light-hearted flirting, whom she occasionally saw at casual tea gatherings. They weren’t close—just acquaintances, really. Later, Emma moved to London, found a job, and settled into a cosy flat in the city’s southwest, nearly forgetting those old “friends” from her past.
Then one day… James reappeared in her life.
Years had passed. He’d married, divorced, and married again. They bumped into each other by chance during a holiday in Brighton. James, as it turned out, wasn’t there with his new wife but… alone. Emma didn’t pry—she wasn’t interested. He kept trying to chat her up: *How’s life? Where do you live now? Any plans?* She answered politely but without enthusiasm.
A week later, he called.
“Listen, me and Sarah”—his first wife—”are in London for a couple of days. Mind if we crash at yours?”
Emma was stunned. Before she could politely refuse, three hours later, they were at her doorstep with suitcases. *Fine*, she thought. *A day or two, I’ll manage.* But a day or two became five… and then indefinitely.
James and Sarah made themselves at home. They wandered around in their underwear, demanded dinner, threw mini dance parties in the evenings, drank wine from her glasses, left messes everywhere, and even invited over some mates—”just for a quick chat.”
“Could we stay one more night? It’s so cosy here!” Sarah chirped, slathering butter on bread from Emma’s fridge.
Emma clenched her teeth, endured it, and only on the fifth day did she finally show them the door. She lied, saying she was ill and had urgent matters. After they left, she scrubbed the flat spotless and swore: never again.
A month passed. Just as Emma had settled back into peace, James called again.
“Hey! Me and my new wife, Lucy, will be in town for a week. How’ve you been? Hope you’ll have us?”
At that moment, something inside Emma snapped. She straightened in her chair.
*This isn’t just cheeky. It’s an invasion.*
Calm but firm, she replied, “Listen, I respect you both, but my flat isn’t a hotel. And I’ve got neither the energy nor the patience to go through that again. If you’re in London, there are hotels, B&Bs, rental flats. I hope you understand.”
James hesitated, then hung up. No thank you, no apology—just silence.
Later, Emma confided in me:
“I suppose I never knew how to say ‘no’ before. I thought being kind meant suffering in silence. Now I realise—respect starts with yourself. If I don’t want guests, that doesn’t make me a bad person. It makes me a grown-up.”
Do you think Emma did the right thing? Or should she have shown sympathy and let her “friends” stay again? Where’s the line between hospitality and sheer audacity?
