So, the other day, me and the wife got this invite from my old mate, James—him and his missus, Emily, just moved into a new rented flat in Manchester and wanted to celebrate. Seemed like a nice do, so we said yes, brought a gift, all cheerful-like.
Thing is, I’ve always wondered—why don’t they have their own place yet? They’ve been together eight years, no kids, both working: he’s a cabbie, she does nails at a salon. You’d think they could’ve at least got a mortgage by now, right? But hey, priorities, I guess.
We rocked up with a bottle of bubbly and a fancy box—our gift: a set of good-quality wine glasses. Emily answered the door in this posh evening dress and heels, which were sinking into the plush lino, leaving dents everywhere. Bit ridiculous, honestly—fancy outfit, but the hallway was all peeling paint and gloom.
Inside, the place was a right state. Dust on the side tables, grit on the floor like their terrier, Alfie, had just dragged half the park in. I tried not to stare—we weren’t there to inspect, just to visit.
I headed to the kitchen to put our gift down, and—blimey. I froze in the doorway. The table looked like it’d survived a bomb. Piles of rubbish, mixed with food scraps: greasy napkins, chicken bones, spice jars, a half-rotten apple, crushed biscuits. Dead centre? A sour cream tub with something suspiciously green inside. Forgotten, clearly.
Dirty mugs everywhere, one with a dried-up teabag stuck to it. Felt like no one had set foot in there for days. And this wasn’t just messy—it was proper filthy.
My wife sighed and mumbled, “D’you think we should help tidy?”
Emily nodded, “Yeah, ta—just haven’t had time…”
So my wife got stuck in, and soon enough, the table was at least somewhat clear. But the vibe was off. Felt awkward, honestly—for them *and* us. How do two grown adults, no kids, decent jobs, let things get that bad?
Sure, everyone’s busy, sometimes you’re just knackered. But this? This was weeks of not bothering.
We sat down. “Dinner” was smoked cheese, leftover cold cuts, crisps—basically whatever they’d grabbed from Tesco on the way back. Lost my appetite, and I’d been starving. Had a sip of wine, made our excuses, and left.
Walked home in silence till my wife finally said, “I couldn’t last a *day* in that mess…”
Not my place to judge how folks live. But one thing’s clear—even the nicest gift feels pointless when it’s just another thing in the chaos.
Dunno about you, but I wouldn’t stick around for round two.
