Dusting off the welcome mat
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
I am currently suffering Imminent House Guest Panic. It is a
condition typified by a powerful desire to throw things into hall closets,
drop to all fours in shower cubicles and determine once and for all
whether that's mould or a plague of ants down there, and to wake up at 3am,
screaming: “Dear God, is that a car pulling into my drive?”
Fortunately, I realise my forthcoming guests - a Brisbane school
friend and her hubby - are probably only turning into Dubbo about
now, which still gives me time to unsling the undies from the shower
rail, determine whether I own a vacuum cleaner and give my home its happy
face.
Future house hosts, note: you'd be amazed how much stuff you can
cram into a hall cupboard - it just takes fast reflexes, and not being
too particular about having both arms. But it's important to remember to
organise some back-up. House guests have been known to recklessly
open doors just because they see doorknobs. Rebels.
The answer is to whip out the black texta and dash off a few signs
for liberal display throughout the house, such as: “Danger, Do Not Open
This Door Without Extensive Health Insurance”; “Carnivorous
Ape-like Creatures Beyond This Point”; and, for the under-bed clutter, “Eye
Contact Below This Line is Ill-Advised Due to Fumigation Residue”.
Then there's the fridge. It's necessary to bear in mind some house
guests do like to inspect inside, so you must also give its interior
a happy face. This means throwing out all forms of new bacterial life
and any hairy mould cultures otherwise unique to South American
jungles.
Next, carefully shake the milk carton to see if it's frozen. If not,
check to see if the use-by date has faded with time. Not yet? Well,
back in she goes.
Then there's that thing called the crisper. If you find in it
something that looks like a brown bowling ball, drop it on the floor
and see what happens. If it goes splat, that was probably the
lettuce from your 1993 picnic provisions.
If it runs away, tell NO ONE. (Particularly if the old dear next-door missing her chihuahua.)
Now take a look in the pantry. My personal record here is finding a
spud with a ¾m-long sprout that looked like an extra from
Anaconda. Fear not, just lop the sprout off and return the potato to its
resting place. It'll be good and ready to throw out in another month or so.
Next, appearances. Take a trip to the markets to buy three bananas,
three apples, three oranges, three tomatoes. Arrange in artful,
casual clusters around the kitchen bench like rabbit droppings. Three is
just the right number to give the impression you eat this stuff all the
time - and not too few to give away the fact you indulge in fruit
tokenism to impress guests.
That done, it's time for one last quick scan around the house.
Anything that's lumpy which doesn't have a pulse, throw it into a
cupboard/wardrobe. Anything with a pulse that moults goes outside.
Other things with a pulse that claim to be family get to stay
inside.
And, voila: one home with a happy face ... ready for guests.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 8 JUL 1997