Imagine literature without house guests. Charles Ryder would never have visited Brideshead, let alone revisited it; Pride And Prejudice’s sprightly plot would have more holes than a colander with no presumptuous Mr Collins, Jane’s illness at Netherfield or Elizabeth’s remeeting of Darcy at Rosings. War And Peace would have had the conflicts, but the romance?
I could go on, and on. But my point is, fiction relies heavily on human social interaction. And so do we. Over the next few weeks damned variants permitting I hope to stay overnight with old friends, and to visit my elderly parents, too.