At sixty-five, I can’t stand anyone stepping foot inside my house.
Some might judge me, but I couldn’t care less. Don’t mistake this for hatred—I don’t despise people or my friends. It’s just the idea of visitors crossing my threshold that sets my teeth on edge. Meet me anywhere—the park, the street, someone else’s home—but not mine. I’m done with it.
I turned sixty-five recently, and something shifted. Just a few years ago, I’d have flung open the door to my little house in a quiet town near Brighton for anyone. Now, the mere thought of guests sends a ripple of irritation through me. After the last gathering, I spent two days scrubbing my flat as if a storm had blown through. I’d slaved over the stove all day, piled the table high with food, and then spent ages scraping away the chaos. Why? I refuse to waste my life like this anymore.
Thinking back, my chest tightens with weariness. A week before guests arrived, I’d scour the place—windows gleaming, floors polished, every corner spotless. Then came the headache of planning meals to please everyone. And those bloated shopping bags! Hauling them up four flights of stairs, cursing under my breath. Then the circus would begin: serve, refill, fetch, clear—cook, waiter, dishwasher, and cleaner all rolled into one. Feet aching, back throbbing, never sitting, never breathing.
For what? To collapse afterward, staring at the wreckage of my kitchen? No more. I’ve had my fill. Why torture myself when I can pay someone else to do it better? Now, every gathering—birthdays, catch-ups—happens in a café or restaurant. Cheaper, simpler, no soul-sucking cleanup. Walk away when it’s done, slip into bed, and sleep with a clear conscience.
I’ve learned to live, not wither indoors. We’re home too much as it is—a proper meet-up’s a rare luxury. Jobs, errands, life—who has time to sit anymore? I spent years grinding myself to dust for family, for others. Now, I want peace.
I’ve picked up a new habit: ringing my friend Margaret at lunch and dragging her to the café down the road, where the cakes make your knees weak. Why didn’t I do this sooner? All those years lost to domestic drudgery.
Any woman would understand. Mention hosting, and your skull splits with planning—what to cook, how to clean, how to impress. It’s punishment, not pleasure. If a friend pops by for five minutes, fine—I’ll put the kettle on. But let’s arrange a coffee shop instead. That’s my salvation now, my little joy.
Listen: don’t fear the restaurant bill. Home costs more—not just in pounds, but in nerves, health, hours gone like smoke. I’ve crunched the numbers—groceries, cleaning, time—it adds up steeper than a café tab. And most of all, you keep yourself intact. At sixty-five, I’ve finally learned: life isn’t just duty. It’s the right to ease, lightness, freedom from other people’s plates and expectations. I won’t open my door to anyone who wants to turn my home into a battleground of tidiness. Enough.