There are two kinds of people in this world: hosts or guests. Nobody can be both | Polly Hudson

My epiphany came between the starter and the main. At a friend’s place for dinner, I sat in awe as she put on a kind of magic show – the first course plates were cleared, but I never noticed her doing it. Delicious food was repeatedly produced with no lengthy disappearing act preceding it, no fuss, no panic. The candles on the table flickered invitingly, the background music was unobtrusive but atmospheric, the wine and chat flowed effortlessly. If I had later discovered she secretly had a full staff – planning, preparing, cooking, cleaning – it would have made perfect sense. But no, it was all her. And then I realised, the world is divided into people who are hosts, and people who are guests. You’re either one, or the other – nobody is both, apart from maybe the Duchess of Sussex. If you aren’t sure which camp you fall into, ask someone close to you if you’re a good host. If they pause for longer than 0.2 seconds before answering, you’re a guest.

As alluded to above, I am a terrible host. When welcoming people into your home, your mood sets the tone for what follows: if you’re relaxed, calm and smiley, they will be too. I am uptight, edgy – and very, very clearly on my last nerve as I open the door to let them in. I’m probably grimacing, I might be close to tears. I will then be so extremely laser focused on them having a nice time, that it will ensure they most definitely do not. I run from room to room. I yelp. I don’t engage in conversation, because even if I can briefly get it together enough to appear to be listening, I’m really thinking about whether I set the oven to the right temperature, and realising I forgot to look at the clock when I put the food in it. I am neither present nor absent, but an infuriating combination of the two. I loiter. I lurk. My energy is that of a surgeon dashing to the operating room, who has just noticed that they’ve forgotten everything they learned at medical school. Or perhaps it’s Manuel from Fawlty Towers. When it comes to hosting, I am a mess.

But as a guest? Sorry, but I’m a freaking delight. I shine. Now the pressure is off, I will be the warm-up support act the headliner host never knew they needed. I’ll arrive seven minutes late – enough to give you extra time for 11th-hour problems, but not so long you worry no one’s coming because they all hate you. I’ll bring a carefully thought-out gift, but not flowers, because that creates an extra job – putting them in water, finding a vase – at the very moment you least need another thing to do. I will take responsibility for keeping the conversation going, and ensure that everybody is included within it, like my life depends on it. I’ll oooh and ahhh at whatever you serve – non-cooks are always the best people to feed, because we’re impressed with anything beyond our repertoire (toast and cereal, thanks for asking). I’ll help clear the table in an unobtrusive, non-martyr-y way. I won’t leave too early or stay too long. When it comes to guesting, I am the dream.

The problem now is payback. Post epiphany, I only want to be the guest star and never host again. But is it OK for all of us to stay in our lanes, play only to our strengths? Obviously, that’s the logical solution, which would be better and more enjoyable for everybody. But if one party repeatedly doles out invites while the other accepts but never returns the favour, will it lead to resentment? I suppose only the hosts among us can answer that. Which is worse? Feeling like you’re being taken advantage of? Or having to come to my house for dinner?