Why I Hate Houseguests

Sleeping Near the Enemy

A noise. At night. Which wakes me from sleep.

At first, I do that thing we all do in these circumstances: lie very still and try to convince myself it’s just my imagination. Houses make noises. Pipes shift. Floors creak. You don’t need to investigate. You’re not in a horror film.

Then I hear it again.

Someone attempting to flush the toilet.

My husband lies beside me, blissfully unaware. The dog is the only other living creature in the house, and despite my best efforts, he has not mastered the lever on the porcelain loo. Could it be an intruder? Possibly - one with a dodgy prostate by the sound of it.

Then the truth lands. And you remember.

It’s not a burglar.

It’s a…houseguest.

Otherwise known as the pain-in-the-arsurus.

If that makes me sound grumpy, intolerant and antisocial, then fine. Guilty as charged. Take the prisoner down.

It wasn’t always this way. When you’re young, sleepovers are brilliant. My mates and I would while away the hours performing dance routines to Fame, fuelled by alarming quantities of crisps, watching whatever excellent nonsense London Weekend Television served up that night, before collapsing top-to-toe in my single bed. When morning arrived, so did the Sugar Puffs.

The key point here is that my mother did all the work - the clean sheets, the good food, the unwavering tolerance.

Later on, you’re old enough to get pissed, and a houseguest is just a random mate who’s missed the last night bus and needs somewhere to kip. No pressure to make up a bed. No expectations at all.

But somewhere along the way, without noticing, I became the sort of person who likes things done a certain way, at a certain time. This is how I function now. I need systems and prompts to remind me to slap on HRT gel, while simultaneously shouting at dogs and humans not to touch my arms until my daily dose of womanhood has sunk in.

The long and short of it is, at my time of life, a houseguest is no longer a delight. They upset my routine and (if I’m really honest) force me to do a “proper clean” - both before and after.

Let me take you through the worst of them. Maybe you’ll recognise yourself.

---

The Flusher

Look, I’m not saying you have to hold it in. If it’s a number two demanding your attention in the middle of the night, no-one’s asking you go outside and squat behind the rose bush, all the while avoiding the gaze of a friendly possum.

But if it’s yellow? Let it mellow.

Because what inevitably follows is this:

The half-flush.

The wait.

The second attempt. Louder. Panicked.

I’m now awake. Alert. Involved.

Your tinkle is not worth waking the entire house. Okay?

---

The Morning Person

I am a very considerate host.

When I pack you off to bed the night before, I provide a fresh guest towel (i.e. the only one not used on the dog), a glass of water, and an array of painkillers/sleep aids that would concern a pharmacist. I also make clear the time we usually rise in this house - mostly early because it’s Australia, and if the kookaburras don’t wake you, the dog walkers will. So it’s not as if you’re expected to lie wide awake until noon, staring at the ceiling, desperately willing the household to stir.

And yet.

There will always be the houseguest who does not read the room.

They rattle into the kitchen at the crack of sparrows, making Mr Blobby seem like a stealth operative. Drawers are opened. Cups are located. Something metallic is dropped.

Morning people don’t wake up. They arrive fully formed, operational and asking to use the smoothie machine that’s been sat in the corner gathering dust for the last five years, bought during a brief and deeply delusional wellness phase. Just don’t yeah? Don’t talk too much, don’t request anything more taxing that a cup of tea or instant coffee, and don’t, under any circumstances, suggest a morning walk “to blow the cobwebs” - although to be fair, I could be equally describing my husband here.

Just do the decent thing and stay in bed doomscrolling, until you hear me up. Okay? Or be a dream overnight guest - the type that slip out as the sun rises and head home before the rest of the house wakes. Those are my kinda people.

---

The Couple Who Insist on “Doing It”

This should go without saying.

Rumpy-pumpy.
Doing the horizontal tango.
Playing hide the sausage.

Whatever you call it, do not have sex under my roof.

What’s that you say at the back?

Why not?

Why not? Because we aren’t animals.

Okay, yes - biologically we absolutely are - but I like to think we’ve evolved to the point where there are certain scenarios in which, even if you’re in the first flush of lust, even if, in a certain light, he’s starting to look like Harrison Ford circa the Indiana years, even if it’s been a while…

You do not, under any circumstances, indulge when you are my houseguests.

For three reasons:

a) No matter how quiet you think you’re being, you will be heard.
And no one - I stress no one - wants to be confronted with the fact that their mates “do it”. It is assumed. It is understood. But there must never be evidence. Not sounds. Not rhythms. Not the faint suggestion of enthusiasm.

Friendship relies on denial. We all agree, collectively, to pretend this aspect of adult life happens elsewhere.

b) Your timing will be appalling.
It will not be late enough for plausible sleep, nor early enough for dignity. It will occur at exactly the moment everyone is awake, still, and helpless.

c) Breakfast will follow.
There is no recovery from this. No amount of instant coffee can erase what has been overheard. We now have to make eye contact while passing the butter, all of us pretending the night unfolded exactly as planned.

It didn’t.

I am no prude, but I refuse to be an unwilling audience in my own home.

Hotels exist.
Bedrooms with locks exist.
Self-control exists - or at least it used to.

Under my roof, for one night only, we rise above our baser instincts.

Or at the very least, you lie very still and wait until you get home, at which point you’ll both inevitably decide you can’t be bothered and agree instead to finish watching that documentary on Netflix.

---

The Make-Yourself-at-Home Abuser

I think we can all agree that when we tell a houseguest to make yourself at home, we mean it.

It’s just that when they actually do what you suggest, it becomes… very, very irksome.

And to some extent, I can’t even blame the houseguest here, because I am - if I’m honest - someone who occasionally says things I don’t entirely mean.

Take the other evening. I was making dinner and fancied a cheeky glass of vino-collapso. I poured myself one and, as a courtesy, yelled across to my husband - asking if he fancied one too. This is important, because history dictates that if I don’t, he will wander into the kitchen, see the glass, and call me “Sammy Solo” for doing fun things without him.

Anyway. On this occasion, he says yes - he would also like a glass of white wine.

At which point I realise there is only enough left in the bottle for two glasses, and baby is thirsty.

I remember another bottle we’d opened, and suggest he grab that. But then I’m told that bottle no longer exists, because some people finish things and don’t tell me, and those same people are always astonished when those items haven’t magically been replenished.

So he says, “Oh don’t worry, you’ve not much there - I’ll have a glass of red instead.”

Now. I know he doesn’t really fancy red. What he fancies is my cheeky Pinot Grigio. And because he’s my husband, and I love him, and because in a certain light he looks like Harrison Ford circa the Indiana years, I say, “No, have a glass of this - I only want the one.”

And then - and this is where everything goes wrong - he does exactly that.

He downs his glass and I am left sipping and savouring mine, knowing that even though I still have the flavour, there is no more of my wine left in the house. I should have let him have the red. I am furious. I am parched. All because he took me at my word. That sexy bastard.

See?

When I say make yourself at home, I am speaking in a spirit of generosity, not issuing a legally binding invitation to take me at my word.

Houseguests who do this - who reorganise cupboards, help themselves to snacks that were actually ingredients, or finish the last of something without so much as a warning - are not making themselves at home.

They are abusing hospitality.

If I invite you to make yourself at home, what I mean is;

Use the toilet without asking (daylight hours).
Same goes for helping yourself to tea and coffee (just don’t use my favourite mug).
Shower approval. Of course you can have a wash, you mad eejit.

That’s it. Those are the liberties.

If this sounds like Shawshank, then suck it up buttercup. I am not a prison guard, but rest assured, you will be judged on whether you change the toilet roll.

---

The Not-Helpful Helper

Performative politeness is one hell of a trick to master. Those who have it down to a fine art usually announce - just as you’ve finished slaving in the kitchen, or as you start clearing up at the end of the night - that they’re “happy to help”.

Your heart lifts. You delight in those precious words. You imagine, briefly, the load being shared. You may even thank them profusely as they begin gathering empty glasses and plates.

And then comes the dawning realisation.

At worst, the Not-Helpful Helper has simply relocated the dirty items from the table to the sink. At best, they’ve stacked everything into the dishwasher with the confidence and logic of a raccoon on meth.

Either way, the mess has been redistributed, but nothing has been cleaned.

Either actually help - by sending me to bed and assuring me that you’ll work your magic, Mary Poppins style, or make a vague gesture and look visibly relieved when I tell you to sit down.

But do not, under any circumstances, be a Not-Helpful Helper. Your conscience will be salved, but I’ll be dissing you for years.

---

Perhaps I’m being harsh. the truth of the matter is, houseguests are a bit like family.

You love them. You tolerate them. And the moment they leave, you strip the bed, open a window, and quietly restore order.

I will still invite people to stay. I will still offer towels and say “make yourself at home”, and I will even mean it - emotionally, if not literally.

Just know this: if I’m woken in the night by a mysterious noise, I won’t assume it’s the pipes, or the house settling, or my imagination.

I’ll know exactly what it is.

A houseguest.

And next time, bring your own toilet roll.

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