Social visitors?
Yup. Social visitors.
How many?
Two.
OMG!
It’s OK. You can say ‘Oh, my God!’ since you’re talking and
I’m listening. You only say O.M.G when you’re not actually talking to somebody
face to face.
Oh, yeah. I forgot
that. OH MY GOD!’
That’s better.
What are you going to
do with them?
Don’t know. That’s the problem. What does one do with social visitors?
Offer them something
to eat?
How can I offer them something to eat? The food I have in my
house is carefully planned to last precisely the one week between shopping trips. My life is organised for my needs, not those of social visitors. I do keep two weeks
worth of bread in the freezer, though, so I suppose I could say: ‘Would you like
something to eat? I have bread.’ But suppose they take me up on the offer? That
will put me in a blind panic until I go shopping again and buy some extra bread
to make up the shortfall and get my life back on an even keel. The only other thing
I keep in any quantity is milk.
How about offering
them bread and milk?
Don’t be ridiculous. Bread and milk is what old people eat
when they’ve lost all their teeth and they’re clean out of Steradent. These two
are a lot younger than me. They’d be offended.
I have a great idea.
You got a week before they arrive. Just buy some extra food the next time you
go the store.
And what the hell do you suggest I buy, clever dick? I don’t
know what social visitors eat, do I? I don’t get social visitors. It’s twenty
years since I last opened my door to people who knocked on it purely for the
pleasure of my company. And I never knew why they did it anyway. I’m not the
social visitor type. I’m a loner, remember? So you tell me: what do social
visitors eat? Corn flakes? Bowls of trifle? Bags of yoghurt-coated raisins? How
the hell am I supposed to know?
Yeah. Guess you’re
right.
You said ‘store.’
I’m sorry?
You said ‘the next time you go to the store.’ Why are you
speaking American?
I just watched House.
Oh. (Damn Yankees.)
OK, so how about you
forget the food and just sit around talking and having a good time?
Sit? Sit where? My house isn’t laid out for social visitors.
It’s laid out for me and me alone.
What’s wrong with your
living room? You’ve got an armchair and a three-seat sofa in there. The sofa
can get some exercise for a change.
But suppose it’s still cold next week like it’s been for the
past three days. The living room is too cold to sit in. That’s why I don’t sit
in it. I sit in my office where the bigger of the storage heaters is.
So use the office.
I can’t use the office. The only furniture in the office is
my computer chair, and that isn’t big enough for three people. So what am I
supposed to do? Buy bean bags? And where would I put them even if I did? The
space in my office is all taken up with me things like computer equipment, and
files and books, and old vinyl records, and big pot plants, and shoes, and
battery chargers for the garden tools. My office is a cockpit in my spaceship-made-for-one. Don’t you get it? I’m in trouble here.
Gee, buddy, guess
you’re right.
And don’t call me ‘buddy.’ I’m neither American nor gay.
Sorry. You could offer them a cup of tea and drink
it standing.
Oh right, that’s a great idea. So now you expect me to find
those matching mugs which have been sitting somewhere at the back of a cupboard
for God knows how long becoming coated with kitchen grime. For all I know they
might have disintegrated by now, and if they haven’t I’d have to wash them.
Some use you are. Get out of my head.
I just remembered
something. You never had this trouble entertaining girlfriends.
That’s because girlfriends weren’t social visitors. They
were opiates. And anyway, that was then. Are you still here?
Nah. I’m gone. See ya.
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