I have lately resolved, in a halfawake reverie, to stop inviting anyone into my home. It isnt that Im pinching pennies; I live in a modest terraced house on the outskirts of Leeds, with a tidy garden that could host a proper tea, and I have a table that will gladly bear a spread.
The reasons swirl like lowlying fog. Preparing a meal for guests consumes a large chunk of the day, and then the cleanup follows like a tide. I can cook, and I do it well, but I dont find joy in spending half the daylight hunched over a stove. For my children, Jack and little Ethel, and for my husband Thomas, Ill conjure something new and exciting; for strangers Im expected to satisfy, Im reluctant to waste that energy. When friends or relatives appear, I have no choice but to set myself in the kitchen for hours, while everyone else relaxes and laughs around me. The guests, having arrived to unwind, never offer a hand, and when they finally slip out the door, a few more hours are spent restoring the house to its former order.
I do tidy up while they are still inside. It isnt that they leave a mountain of rubbish or scatter candy wrappers across the floor; the house never resembles a landfill after they depart. Yet the disorder they bring lingers: chairs are shuffled, cushions displaced, toys strewn across the living room when the cousins arrive with their children. The bedsheets need changing, and stains appear on the tablecloth and curtains from the youngsters inevitable spills. Once a child knocked a vase off the windowsill, we had to scoop up the soil, wash the floor, and replant the geranium. On other occasions, they wrestle with door handles until the latch breaks.
Children are, after all, children. You cant watch over every one, nor can you punish the offspring of others while their parents mingle with other acquaintances. So I end up not only cooking but also scrubbing the entire house after them.
Visitors also pry into the private corners of our lives. I never do laundry not even a single pair of socks when I know acquaintances will be dropping by. I stash away awaytime items in cupboards, yet they still ask to see inside, to examine the contents as if the kitchen were a museum. Some even run a meticulous inspection of every shelf, which feels like an intrusion into our personal space. Our flat is small, crammed with furniture, vases, and hanging flower arrangements, and guests habitually pluck a sprig to take home.
At times I blamed myself, wondering if my own temperament repels guests. But after counting the countless arrivals, I realised I no longer have the strength or will to pour my energy into cooking for them and then scrubbing the rooms spotless. I would rather meet for a coffee in a cosy café, take a stroll through the park, and return to a house that already feels clean and calm.
