The art of visiting

I've been playing host to a house guest for the past week. I like to think I've been a pretty good host - provided spare keys so they can come and go as they please, directions at any time of day, suggestions for what to do, and three days of escorted touring that has added about 600km to the mileage on my almost-new car - at hefty cost in fuel considering that it's Christmas. Most important of all, I have taken her along to my family Christmas, making sure that she wasn't orphaned for the day. I have taken her to my friends' Christmas, including buying a Kris Kringle present for her so that she didn't feel left out. I have cooked for her on no less than three occasions, two of them after having been at work all day.

In return, I have had the pleasure of her company, received a bottle of booze, and had my dishes washed twice (although apparently, finding the place where everything goes was a little too much work). I have had my shower clogged with her hair, I have had my bathroom sprayed with water, my tap twisted out of alignment, my spare bedroom made into a bigger sty than I ever managed, every power point touched left switched on, every light in the flat on at various times, a hissy fit chucked when I dared to suggest that on Boxing Day perhaps I might see some of MY friends that I haven't caught up with for Christmas instead of trekking all the way down to the frigging Mornington Peninsula for her to see some friends of her aunt's who she met when she was 20. You'll notice, the one thing I haven't received - any sign of thanks.

I know I won't comment, but I have almost ripped her head off on several occasions, the best one being when she insisted that she knew my mother MUST have a particular cleaning product in the house, in spite of me knowing that she never used the stuff. My knowledge of my mother's house cleaning habits was, of course, inferior, because she dived under the sink and came out with the product in question, and a very smug look on her face (turns out that kitchen benches must be cleaned with disinfectant before dishes can be stacked on them - wiping them with a damp cloth simply won't do). Not sure she noticed it later when Mum picked up the bottle of cleaner and asked where that had come from, because she didn't know she had it. I'm also incapable of even folding my own laundry. A trip to the loo before sorting things into a state that she considered appropriate for them was too big a delay for her. I came out to find her folding my underpants, and not listening when I did everything short of swear at her to get her to bugger off and leave my clothes alone. If I'd wanted to move them, I would have done it myself, as soon as I was out of the loo. We've been mates for a while, but we're hardly at the point where it's fine to fold each other's undies.

Earlier today, when someone cut in front of me as they got on the freeway, and I benefited from the wonderful joy of her driving instruction, about how she would have acted. Me having my foot on the brake was not enough of a response, apparently. I should have changed lanes. I should have done this, I should have done that, because this delightful guest of mine is always in the right, and can never concede that she might be wrong - although she has proven to be so quite a few times. I should know all of this. In fact, I did know it before she arrived, but it had never been brought home quite so strongly to me before. Or maybe it had, during some of the weeks that we spent working together on hotels in the UK. I remember seething with resentment quite often, but knowing that me venting any of it could very well lead to a stand-up fight, so I always swallowed the bile that rushed to spill out of my mouth. And I've done it again this time, biting back the words that I want to say, the times when I can feel the steam about to blow the top of my head off. Or more likely, the top of her head. I'm not known among my closest friends and family for my subtlety, but I'm not close enough to this one that I will blow my top openly. So I seethe and plot revenge, instead.

But if she thinks I won't repay the favour of being the world's most annoying house guest by visiting her in Brisbane in 2011, she can have another think. Of course, I can't chuck a tanty when she doesn't dessert friends and family during the holiday season to chauffeur me around town - her family is still back in South Africa - but I can make life difficult for her. I can run up her power bills, her water bills, I can be messy, I can sit around and watch her prepare dinner after a day at work. I can give her advice on how she should be doing things, I can correct her every thought, wilfully misunderstanding her, and never giving an inch in an argument even when the people involved are talking about completely separate issues. I can do all of this.

The question is, can I do all of that and still keep the friend? I think not, on the whole. And the annoying part is, when she's not being the world's biggest know-it-all, she's great fun. It's just that at close quarters, the fun gets buried in the pedantic crap that she also spews, and the fact that you realise she doesn't know half as much as she thinks she does. I can't see the friendship lasting long-term, in all honesty. But I'll be damned if I give it up before I get a weeks free room, board and transportation in Brisbane.