Taking the mickey

Some days you're down. Of late - if I'm brutally honest - my usual upbeat, I can take on the world-attitude has been waning. But I like to think that my nearest-and-dearest have done their best to keep me chipper. And then one of them decides to take Mickey out to play...

About two weeks ago I received an email from the sister of a friend of mine saying that she and another friend (both in their early thirties) were going to be passing through town and asking could they stay? I had mentioned when we'd caught up over Christmas that if ever she were travelling in London that I had a sofa she was more than welcome to crash upon, but how she had extended this invite to her friend I'm not so sure. Not one well-versed in saying, "No", I emailed back instructions on how to get to my place and offered her and her friend my bed, while I'd take the couch.

Nice? I thought so.

And things were nice enough for Night-1 (of two). They arrived knackered from their mission from Oz, I'd managed to locate two spare towels for their much desired showers and we all sat around in the living room chatting with my flatties. However, Night-2 was a different story.

With only one day in London and having spent the sunlight hours roaming the High Streets they decided to meet up with friends for evening drinks. I'd had a not so fabulous day in the office so declined their invitation to join. They had my keys so all was fine for them to enjoy a night out and for me to embrace the chance to take to my couch early.

And then the clock struck 1am. I heard their not so quiet entrance into my humble abode and then the sounds of three separate toilet flushes - a third guest? Surely not.

Oh yes! It seemed they had picked up a straggler by the name of Tony. He kindly introduced himself as I lay bundled on the lounge and then proceeded into my bedroom. Shocked - and almost speechless - I followed him into my 2 foot-by 2 foot boudoir to ask the girls who in fact this male specimen was. The reply, a 'friend' who was to be sharing the bed with them that night. Ahh, "No." I had found the word and it seemed my mouth had become quite anxious to repeat it. "No... No... No." Thinking I'd made my point quite clear I took myself back to the couch only to have Tony take his place on the one-seater next to me, huffing and puffing that he had to squish on such a small chair.

Ahh, "No."

I went back into my room to inform my 'guests' that Tony would in fact NOT be staying. It was at this point that the friend of my friend (who'd quite taken to Tony) went to break the bad news - not without first eyeing me out like I was her mother not letting her stay out late after a party. Our nighttime Casanova then proceeded to thank me for my in-hospitality, calling me a Bitch and making as much noise as humanly possible at 1.15am as he put back on his socks and shoes.

The next hour was spent with friend-of-friend pleading with Tony over the phone, apologising for 'my' rudeness and for 'her' making him venture out Clapham-way for nothing. Poor Tony.

It would have been nice come morning time for her to have apologised to me, but no. And while my friend did eat a small portion of humble-pie when she met me in the kitchen over breakfast, her excuse for lacking the guts to say no to her friend the night before made me realise that for such a small word 'No' is an often neglected negative in the English language...

I for one am going to make a point of saying it much more frequently from now on.