When we arrived home from work on Friday evening, I seem to remember asking if there were any plans afoot for the coming weekend. Although each weekend is usually approached with nothing particular in mind, something invariably gets “organised”. Apart from a visit to the school fete, where the children would be performing a dance routing, and where W would spend several hours making candy-floss for people (and sugar coating herself in the process), the rest of the day appeared to be our own.
“Let’s have a barbecue then”
The main thinking behind having a barbecue was that it requires little or no washing up. It also provided an excuse to invite friends round and spend some quality time together, rather than type messages into social networks in the dead of night.
After arriving home from the school fete, I ran around the garden like a lunatic - tidying up, clearing the decking, emptying the barbecue of ash, and so on. I had just about finished when the first friends began to arrive, and finally had the chance - the first of the day - to sit in the sunshine and relax.
I think half the reason I escaped having a hangover this morning was because I did all the cooking. The ladies in attendance kept asking after me, but I didn’t really mind at all - cooking on a barbecue isn’t exactly rocket science, and I enjoyed doing it. I had already bought a ton of food and drink, but as each guest arrived, more food, and more drink arrived. Sausages, burgers, kebabs, bean burgers, chicken pieces… you name it, I cooked lots and lots of it.
As the coals died down, so did the sun. In the dying light of the evening we huddled around the table on the decking, lit the chimenea, opened a variety of bottles, swapped stories, and laughed more than we have in some time. I noticed people beginning to feel the cold, so slipped into the house to retrieve blankets - a chorus of approval greeted their delivery to grateful recipients, even if they were now wrapped in various depictions of Peppa Pig, Dora the Explorer, and Diego.
While at the school fete earlier in the day, we had won a small bottle in the raffle - a bottle of “Killepitsch” (not sure on the spelling). I somehow found myself sat between two lady friends, with shot glasses in front of us, and the mysterious bottle. It smelled like cough mixture. It tasted like cough mixture. It was 42% alcohol. It didn’t last long.
Long after the sun had gone down, the children began to admit defeat and retreated to the house. While saying goodbyes in the kitchen, myself and another Dad looked in on the children to break the news to them, and saw a line of small faces in the dark, lit by the flicker of the television screen, blanketed by duvets on the couches.
“I remember nights like this when I was young”, I remarked.
“And me. They will remember this night for the rest of their lives”…