IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:THERE'S SOMETHING about having people in the house that makes me uneasy, even when they bring booze (if they don't arrive bottle-laden, they can turn on their heels at the door).
You usher them in, sit them down, play some ambient tunes, feed and water them, kick them out and resume position on couch. TV on, hand in pants, exhale and relax.
If I want to talk to people, I'll go to them. It's not often I want to converse, but for some reason the urge usually makes an appearance early on a Friday or Saturday evening.
I don't want to talk in anyone else's house any more than my own; it's a public house that's required. Curmudgeonly as this sounds, I don't think I'm alone in this thinking.
Being either a host or a guest requires following a set of rules designed to distract from my prime motive most evenings, namely a brief interlude of escape from what goes on in the home. I want neutral territory, bawdy conversation, some lewd behaviour and no washing-up.
Dinner parties, then, are a rare occurrence round our way. The missus likes to invite girls around, open wine, pretend chips and dips are haute cuisine and discuss absent mutual friends through some John Grisham movie they're having difficulty following.
The truth is, I'm not even a bad host, I'm a murderous one. I resent the presence of anyone without a shared genetic code in a place where I like to wallow in my own filth. My walls and roof are barriers to keep others out rather than shelter them from the wind and rain.
Fortunately our house was built in the 1890s when entertaining wasn't seen as the social responsibility it is today. According to the census of 1911 there were nine bodies occupying these few rooms 100 years ago and the mini-rabbit- warren style of the place hasn't changed a whole lot since. In recent years the missus has suggested on a number of occasions that we rip every- thing out to allow the introd- uction of smooth metal lines and Swedish timbers. I have managed to stonewall this development because to do so would only result in our having to justify the outlay by inviting people in to pass judgment. To avoid that I'll stick with swirly carpet and woodchip walls.
At this stage in proceedings very little in our social status quo is likely to change. Nobody I know expects an invite; in fact, they would probably be worried to receive one. When wife decides to get sociable, she not so gently encourages me to be absent. We're all happy. The problem is the kids don't know the rules.
All of a sudden they're inviting all sorts in off the street. These guests have no manners. They don't bother pretending your food doesn't stink, they jump on your bed, they throw your clothes around, write on your favourite books and demand that you help them onto the toilet.
Pondering this development, I was advised by an elder that it's better to have them in your own house where at least you know what they're doing. Mmm, providing there's no hard drug use going on elsewhere, I would be quite happy to have the whole lot of them anywhere else.
I have been mining the vein of neighbourly generosity in taking care of my kids for a while now. It's a straight- forward procedure: target a family with similar-aged children, befriend one or both parents, hover for long enough to be invited inside, mention you have to be somewhere else, and hear the blessed words: "Leave the kids and you go on."
My cunning plan has worked beautifully thus far, but I fear the neighbours have been speaking among themselves. In one telling afternoon, two sets turned up independently "to see how the kids were". I was caught napping with no recourse to action and had to invite them in. Kids were ushered across the threshold as parents scampered to freedom.
My supervisory approach is to ignore visiting children unless blood has been drawn. For some reason this policy attracts them to me, to prod with various implements.
I have long been accustomed to being used as a climbing frame by my own, but strange children also want to jump on me and test my ability to endure pain.
It seems this is a reality for the foreseeable future. My anti-social kharmic retribution has only just begun.