**Diary Entry – 4th June**
Got invited to a housewarming today… and it left me stunned. The kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off.
An old mate of mine, James, and his wife recently moved into a new rented flat in Manchester and threw a little gathering. Sounded pleasant enough—grabbed a decent bottle of wine and a nice set of whiskey glasses as a gift, headed over in good spirits.
Still, I’d always wondered—why don’t they have their own place? Married eight years, no kids, both working: he’s a cabbie, she does nails at a salon. Surely they could’ve sorted a mortgage by now? Ah well, priorities differ.
We arrived, gift in hand, and were greeted by his wife, Eleanor. She was done up in cocktail wear and stilettos, which sunk straight into the cheap vinyl flooring, leaving dents. The contrast was almost comical—fancy dress against peeling wallpaper and a dreary hallway.
Inside, the place had a general air of neglect. Dust layered the side tables, and the floor was gritty, like their Staffordshire terrier had just rolled in from the park. I brushed it off—we weren’t there to inspect, just to celebrate.
I headed to the kitchen to set down the gift. Then it hit me—literally stopped dead in the doorway. The table looked like someone had tried surviving the apocalypse on it. Piles of rubbish mixed with food scraps: greasy napkins, chicken bones, half-empty spice jars, a rotten apple, crushed biscuits. Right in the middle sat an old yoghurt pot with something suspiciously green inside—probably forgotten weeks ago.
Dirty mugs were scattered about, one with a shrivelled teabag stuck to it. Seemed like no one had set foot here for days. This wasn’t just messy—it was downright filthy.
My wife sighed quietly and muttered, *”Shall we help tidy?”*
Eleanor nodded. *”Yeah, cheers—been a bit mad lately.”*
So my wife rolled up her sleeves, and soon the table was at least passable. But the mood was ruined. Felt awkward—for them *and* us. Couldn’t wrap my head around how two grown adults, no kids, steady jobs, let things get this bad.
Sure, life gets hectic. But this? This was weeks of neglect.
We sat down to what passed for a spread: smoked cheddar, leftover deli meats, crisps—clearly a last-minute shop. Lost my appetite on the spot, despite skipping lunch. Had a quick drink, made our excuses, and left.
Walked home in silence. Finally, my wife muttered, *”I couldn’t last a day living like that.”*
Not my place to judge how people live. But one thing’s clear—even the finest gift means nothing when it’s handed into chaos and indifference.
Would you have stayed?
