31 years ago I was a mere 10 years old. However, even by
1984 the fickle nature of fame had meant that my celebrity status was already
on the wane. I’d already featured in at least two school nativity plays, once
as a shepherd and then on to the dizzy heights of Joseph himself. Having said
that, Joseph does very little throughout the nativity, it’s the opening speech
on the way to Bethlehem that maketh the man.
However time had moved on, I was becoming middle aged in
school years and smaller, cuter children had arrived, which meant that casting
directors (in this case, the music teacher, Mrs Roberts) were quick to dump us
old timers on the scrapheap and put the youthful faces up front.
Like all mature actors, I had to resort to character parts
and so I was lumbered with the small role of the Innkeeper. Now he (I called
him Isaac) has even less to do than that gullible sap, Joseph, but in the
words of the famous theatre practitioner Konstantin Stanislavski, “There are no
small parts, only small actors”, so I was determined that I would not go
unnoticed.
Suffice to say that dear old Isaac was the most belligerent,
petty, and loud-mouthed 10-year-old Innkeeper in all of Bethlehem. He wasn’t
keen at all on this beardy weirdy and his pregnant concubine on their tatty,
smelly donkey staying at his luxury Inn (4 out of 5 on Trip Advisor) as they’d
totally spoil the ambience, but it was Christmas (yes, I know) and there was
money to be made. Therefore he was happy for them to stay in his manky old cow
shed out the back, although he sold it to them as a unique bijou property with
a rustic feel so as to get a fair price. To be fair to Isaac, there are some
Londoners who dream of such magnificent floor space at such a reasonable price.
Needless to say Isaac was incensed when he checked on his
latest visitors some hours later to find that not only had the woman gone and given
birth to a screaming brat but they’d also been joined by three farmers and some
other gentleman who he could only presume from their gaudy clothes and obvious
ill-gotten wealth were drug dealers.
Therefore Isaac made one last appearance at the end of the
nativity and with no lines on the page he still managed to convey to the
entire school hall his abject horror at the situation. It really is a mystery
how I never ended up as a professional actor.
However, Old Isaac’s temperament towards visitors is one
that I share. Some would call me anti-social, some would say I’m introvert, but
those who know me well would probably disagree with both assessments. People
are much more complex than that.
You see, as I’ve got older I’ve realised that I don’t need
constant company, even if I like the company. In fact, I think that I actually
tire of it more quickly than others. If I found myself trapped in a confined
space with people for a long period of time I would actually go quite insane.
I’m suspecting that this comes from my childhood. For the
first 12 years of my life we always seemed to live in houses that were miles
away from civilisation. Whilst in the summer months that was no problem as I
could get on my trusty Raleigh Strika and seek out friends, during the
inclement months I spent many long hours on my own, in an age before mobile
phones, all-day children’s TV channels, games consoles or the internet. Heaven
only knows what I used to do but it would have involved using my imagination.
If nothing else it left me with a degree of creativity and an independent
streak, which is no bad thing.
So, these days when we have visitors I’m always keen to
know when they’re going to be leaving. Sounds terrible doesn’t it? That doesn’t
mean that as soon as they arrive I greet them with “Welcome, good to see you,
when will you be going?” I’m not that socially inept. Well, not quite.
What I mean is I have boundaries (as do we all) but whereas
normal functioning British people grit their teeth and smile through, I seem to
find that a little more difficult.
You see, a one or two night stay by friends is
just fine. That’s manageable. I’m pleased to see them, we have a good time, I
can be the perfect mein host. A three night stay raises my eyebrows (“have they
not got homes to go to?”) and my host-like qualities subside on the run up to
that third night to help acclimatise our guests to the cold, hard reality that
they will soon be turfed out and have to fend for themselves again.
Anything beyond a three-night stay therefore is when I’ve
decided that enough is enough and that really by now our visitors should be
paying rent. I withdraw all congenial host qualities and curl up in a foetal ball
in the corner of a room and play dead in the hope that they will get bored and
go home.
If the visitors don’t leave after a fourth night, then I
book a hotel and bugger off to Sheffield. Don’t think I’m joking, this has
happened.
The same applies to when I visit friends. As I’ve
reached middle age I realise that I don’t really enjoy staying at other
people’s houses for more than a night or two. After that, I’m done. I can’t
leave quickly enough. My preference if I’m visiting people at all is to book
into a hotel as I can go out, be as sociable as the next party animal, but then
I can go and close the hotel room door and just chill, without the need to
communicate to anyone.
So now I probably seem to you just like Isaac, a
belligerent, socially bereft ignoramus, but I assure you I’m not. I like people
visiting, I welcome them into my home with open beers, but I also enjoy waving
them off whilst I still have the energy.
Having said that, visitors are more than welcome to stay in
my cow shed. There are no cows in it but there is a lawn mower and a barbecue.
£20 a night per person. It’s a bargain.
No farmers, new born babies or drug dealers allowed.