Why do I have such a fucking big mouth? You know how you meet people when you're abroad? And you say, 'When you're in London, you'd be welcome to stay'? But you don't actually expect anyone to take you up on it. And what you envisage when they do, is actually of some trouble free stay involving the odd evening together, but basically you stay out of each other’s way. Well, this time it's got me into trouble.
Mr Beaten and I are quite uptight when it comes to our house. We can't help wincing when people slam the kitchen drawers (That's something they don't tell you about the new 'drawer culture'. Whereas once your plates were stationary on a shelf when at rest, now they're at constant risk of breakage as they get moved about every time you want something, and then shunted back again at alarming speed. Not sure about this kitchen revolution.); We can't bear people to put things in the sink, for fear of it chipping, and a washing up bowl is too ugly for Mr B; We have an organic obsession which means we never have enough to eat in the house; and I can't countenance using a worktop as a chopping board. So, when someone comes to stay, we whip ourselves into a frenzy, absorbing each other’s stress and giving each other migraines. It's a barrel of laughs.
When our disabled French twin friends asked if one of them could stay for 2 weeks (2 weeks!), the right-on side of me felt obliged to accommodate them - although my mother was away for a week, so I put our guest at her house for one of the weeks. Thank god. Of course, the stay had to be just after Mr B's mother announced that she would be descending on us. Because this woman has no concept of manners, she didn't think to let us know how long her stay would be. So she did, in fact, overlap with the French. I made Mr B. turf mummy from the spare room, on the grounds that the French was disabled and needed a bed and wasn't fit to sleep on the floor. So that was a pleasant moment of retribution. She really is an unbelievable cunt.
The French had omitted to tell me that they were coming ensemble - I was expecting the half twin package, but I got the full compliment for the first couple of days. This was actually OK. They're so small it seems wrong for only one of them to be in a double bed, and I feel like a presenter from Sesame Street, because for once I am taller than someone. I'm also less responsible when they have each other.
The brief harmony ceases when Twin One and Mother B. leave. Then I seem to be left with an interminable eight-day charge of caring for a schnorrer (I don't know if there is a suitable translation for this - think piss taker).
Twin Two goes to English classes every day, and is up and out early, but back by four and expecting entertainment. I begin to notice, because I'm horribly mean, that she has contributed nothing to the household. When we run out of cereal, rather than replacing, she manages to find Mr B's packed lunch bars to shnaffle. Stocks begin to run low, and I'm working and haven't had time to shop. One day I'm delighted to see the French one return from school with groceries, but these never make an appearance into the kitchen, and are obviously to take home as foreign delicacies.
I feel bombarded by passive aggression. Not only does Twin Two refuse to speak French in an effort to improve the English, but she also refuses to understand anything I say to her which she doesn't want to hear; she goes round being disabled, so you're caught between trying to treat her equally, whilst only doing so if it means being nice and accommodating, which I don't normally do for anyone else.
The week draws to a close, and reaching the final night, I can no longer face cooking for the guest (which I've done every night, apart from one in which I was out and fretted over what she would eat). My mother suggests a movie, La Vie En Rose, but schnorrer face wants to see an English language film. So mother buys tickets for Hairspray. Schnorrer doesn't offer to pay. With time to kill, we go for a Chinese. I pay. Schnorrer yet again doesn't offer, or say thank you! The upside is that mother is able to witness at first hand the schnorring. Schnorrer doesn't even like the film that much, and says that the language is basic, but given that I can't understand two thirds of what she says, a bit of basic wouldn't go amiss in my opinion. What’s the point of trying to talk about ethics if you can’t talk about sandwiches?
Anyway, it's over. My best friend asked to stay the other day. I told her to fuck off.
