Every year I hold a Christmas party to which are invited all the staff and students of the English language school where I used to work, and just about everyone else I know. Well in excess of a hundred people usually cross the threshold. Alas, this year my friends will have to forego their annual evening of debauchery as my home and venue of countless nights of revelry will be still. Why? The flatmates of course.
My delectable lodgers have turned their once exquisite bedrooms into a haven of bacteria, they have discarded the luxurious white bedlinen in favour of their own patterned polyester duvets in hideous shades of yellow and lime green, on top of which they have 'rearranged' the furniture so that beds are now pushed up against balcony doors and bedside cabinets sit next to each other in the opposite corners. Like their fellow citizens in blocks throughout the nation they never feel the need to open a window, hence there is a distinctly unattractive whiff emanating from their dens. How could I possibly invite guests to my house?
One could of course just close the bedroom doors but it would not be the same. Visitors love to stroll through the corridors of my palatial apartment, gasping in delight at my vast library and impeccable taste, albeit coming from those who do not read and to whom any interior not painted yellow is indeed a marvel. Nevertheless, following partygoers from room to room as they breathlessly utter superlatives does my vanity the world of good and is one of the rare pleasures I get from my grim existence in this grey land.
So this year the party is off. A disappointment for many and another reason to shift my two tenants asap.
