Rain of Terror
It's not just any old place and any old time that one gets to see the irascible and facetious tantrums of the weather, with golden sun transforming into light rain reverting back to cloudy, then lapsing into rain and intensifying into hail. Most people think that such a lightning switch in the weather is highly representative of many things, such as fleeting, but awful mood swings and the fickleness of human nature. But balancing in a boat that was no more than a few shiny planks of wood held together by some glue and goodwill, on the river that was a freezing soup of ducks and disease, I tended instead to curse under my breath about what a misnomer the word "Spring" had come to be.
However, such a capricious climate was then something to be proud of, all because people from sunnier climes had come to visit, and inasmuch as our weather being worse than our food like a bark is worse than a bite, it was still something to show off as being ours. Such a great length of absurdity could only have been aroused by having guests over to stay.
Coincidentally enough we were watching N--'s copy of French & Saunders, specifically a sketch about a neurotic housewife (that aptly enough was also neurotically long-drawn) having guests over and then fussing anxiously and interminably about the comfort of her guests, but probably also the impression that she was giving them, (that is, one of a severe and incurable illness of mind). Much like the real French & Saunders, such a situation was funnier re-enacted than when watched.
We did, in the end, impress by rolling out a three course meal and tipples, at great material and mental cost that would put a significant portion of costly and sub-standard eating establishments here to shame. At the end of it all I was thinking about why the hospitality industry didn't have a much higher suicide rate than say, the rock music industry.
Our labours were not pre-meditated of course. Even if they were, we would have to deny them vehemently, like accusations of homosexuality, because in most circles taking extreme care of guests is a defunct and unfashionable practice. Though coming from backgrounds where an almost comical abundance of devotion towards guests, even the most unwashed and unwelcome, is a staunch tradition, it had never consciously occurred to us that we would ever abide by that custom if the need ever arose.
Though I think we might subconsciously have done it. Even if one is not filled with an almost fanatical devotion to the place that one lives it there seems to be this nagging need tugging at one to at least make it seem like a pleasant enough place, if not because one has at least a smidgen of fondness for the place then because one wants other people not to think that one is living in a figurative hellhole filled with burning figurative gasoline.
In being particularly hospitable then, we might also be being particularly mindful of the image that we are projecting to others, not of course to a neurotic extent. Our almost profligate generosity this time might have been due to a sense of goodwill towards our particular guests, but in painting a rainbow over the rain-swept landscapes of C-- I felt for a while a sense of inadequacy, like going behind a magnificent facade and sitting amongst the forest of scaffolding that holds it together. Naturally, like the stinging hail, this quickly cleared.
While I may have to eat the words I might have muttered over the past days, at least I have a glass of pride to wash them down with.
(Of course, you might have noticed that this is second in a series of insecure self-rationalisations and has totally nothing to do with anybody visiting at all.)
