21 February 2020
Friday. A new apron arrived this morning, starched so stiffly it could stand in a corner and judge me, which it did.
Tonight was the first dinner party. I have spent months on the seating plan, the menu cards and the diary I leave lying about for guests to read, because a host who leaves nothing to read is no host at all. I wrote that diary in my second-best hand. It is full of my habits, my recipes and, regrettably, a rather useful amount of information. One must give the guests a sporting chance or the evening drags.
The arrangement is simple. Guests come round on the floor of my meat locker, the freezers humming politely, while I pop out for the last of the shopping. I am always at the shops. I have come to accept that this is my tragic flaw.
When I returned, the locker was empty and the gamesmaster was handing out photographs. Photographs! Of my guests, smiling, holding a little sign. Nobody photographs the host.
Still, the apron suits me. I may keep it.
— U.
