Somewhat dreading the eighteenth birthday party. Always before we’ve had the parties at our house and the “youff” have behaved admirably. In fact it’s adults you have to watch for with their cavalier attitude to red wine stains (yes, whoever you were, I do still bear a grudge).
But this time, the twins want all their friends. And they will only be eighteen once.
So we’ve hired a church hall.
Bright side – we won’t have to pick beer caps out of the sofa, mop the unidentified stickiness off the floor, ply the people two doors up with wine and grovelling apologies.
Ugly worries – we shall be seriously outnumbered by huge drunken eighteen year-olds, a number of whom will be strangers to us. A crowd mentality could develop. (I have no idea what this means, but it sounds serious.)
I ring our old friends, the Walkers, whose daughter is also eighteen. Will you come and lend us moral support?
“You mean, if you have to take a child to casualty, we could hold the fort?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“Or if you get really burly gate-crashers, we could back you up?”
“Or if the police turn up, we could act as character witnesses.”
“Wait a minute. Are you just winding me up?”