🍷 When Mum’s Hosting Skills Came Straight From the Psych Ward: A NarcFlex Memoir

There she was. Reclining in her throne—er, armchair—with her £25 bottle of wine, label artfully turned outward, as if Merlot came with a degree in being better than you. Meanwhile, the rest of us were treated to supermarket pop that tasted like expired regret and “you should be grateful.”

Welcome to dinner with a narcissist:

Where the drinks are tiered by perceived worth and everyone is a guest in name but a servant in practice.

She poured herself the good stuff like she was royalty in exile.

We, the peasants, got the drinks aisle’s apology.

As she sipped her superiority, she gave a little speech—something between Oscar acceptance and hostage negotiation:

“I always make sure to treat people well, I’m just very particular.”

Translation: You’re lucky I’m even acknowledging your thirst.

The Setting:

• One crystal glass for her.

• Three mismatched cups for everyone else (including one suspiciously sticky tumbler that’s seen more trauma than therapy).

• And no one dare touch the “good snacks,” unless you’re ready for a passive-aggressive interrogation about boundaries and respect.

She was the hostess with the most-ness—if “most” meant delusion and dietary double standards. And don’t get me started on the Diet Coke incident. You know the one. She drinks it because it’s “healthier,” while everyone else gets fizzy toxins that could power a lawnmower.

But here’s the twist.

All that superiority?

All that fake-fabulousness?

It doesn’t mask the fact that she’s playing a game she’s already lost.

Because when you treat people like props, they eventually stop showing up to the play.

Final toast:

“To the woman who served herself the vintage and everyone else the vinegar—your throne’s made of plastic, darling, and it’s starting to crack.”