The last skirting board is painted, the last piece of good china washed, the last carpet shampooed. I even managed to get the mint-sauce splashes off the kitchen ceiling – but that’s another story.
The house looks so good I’d buy it over again, but I’m only fit to fall down in a heap and sleep for a week.
There is however no rest for the wicked. I must stop playing Martha the Household Martyr, clean myself up, don a frilly pinny and take on the role of Hannah the Hostess, humming happily in the kitchen as I effortlessly conjure up as if on a conveyor belt, three square meals a day on round plates and an interesting succession of snacks, drinks and nibbles, while listening through the half-open door to the sound of other people enjoying themselves.
Lord, but I hate having people to stay. It puts you all out of your way of going which, in my case, is to do as little as is domestically possible without the public health inspector having to be called in. The odd overnight guest one can welcome with impunity, especially in winter. If they come in the dark and leave in the dark your little dilapidations don’t show so much and you can throw down a pile of magazines on top of that indelible stain on the carpet.
Talking of indelible stains, why do visitors invariably bring stonking great bunches of funereal lilies that asphyxiate you with their scent and shed pollen all over the place?
Serial visitors are a true test of mettle. Twenty-four hours between the departure of the last one and the advent of the next, you’re in there like an eight-armed dervish, obliterating all traces of the previous occupant, picking the wilting petals off the flower arrangement and hoping the hastily-dried sheets won’t give them rheumatism. If ever there was a case of ‘sleep faster, we need the pillows’, this is it. How do bed-and-breakfast owners do it?
It’s the people who come for a few days that are the problem. A few days? Is that more than two? Less than a week? They coyly do not specify. Cravenly, you refuse to ask them directly. The scene is set for increasing domestic tension, sunny on the surface, rumbling dangerously underneath. “Give us a key and we’ll manage independently,” suggest the guests. Indeed they’ll do nothing of the sort!
They’ll discover the pile of damp, spidery floorcloths in the cupboard under the sink, which, economy decrees, are the recycled remains of tattered tee shirts. “Don’t bother with lunch,” they say, “we’ll fend for ourselves.” Oh no they won’t. They’ll discover the unwashed grill pan covered with a disaster of the forgotten sausages. Let them launder their own smalls unattended and they’ll discover the sordid state of the futility room you haven’t had time to clean and, out of natural curiosity, they’ll investigate the strange odour emanating from the back of the vegetable rack.
“Now you mustn’t feel you’ve got to entertain us,” they protest – so naturally, you take them out to a restaurant or invite lots of other friends round at equal expense and you, Martha, are out in the kitchen again.
I’ve nothing against visitors in principle – it’s the deleterious effect their presence has on family relationships. The worst part is putting up a front to deceive strangers, playing the devoted host couple with smiles too bright and courtesy too elaborate. But it’s the exasperated exchanges when everyone has retired for the night, the sotto-voce utterances between bathroom and bedroom, the furiously muted post-mortem, the unfair accusations spat with quiet venom into the dark – that really do the damage. The weekend world is peopled with couples lying in bed, fighting in whispers.
Anyway, here we are, nice as pie, the house standing to attention, everyone washed and brushed. The car wheels crunch on the gravel. They’re here. We congregate on the front door step, the very picture of familial love.
“Well, hello! Wonderful to see you! You can only stay till Friday? What a shame.”
