Mr and Mrs Brand’s wedding anniversary meal

Barry Brand believed three important things about life.

Firstly, socks were optional.

Secondly, dinosaurs probably still existed in Croydon.

And thirdly, if adults said, “Don’t touch that,” then touching that thing immediately became his life’s mission.

Unfortunately for everyone around him, Barry was also four years old.

“Barry,” sighed his older brother Alfie, who was seven and already spoke like a disappointed accountant, “you are not supposed to put potato waffles in the toaster sideways.”

“Why not?” Barry asked.

“Because that’s not how physics works.”

Barry considered this seriously.

Then he pushed the waffles further down with a wooden spoon.

Alfie screamed.

Smoke drifted from the toaster like a tiny volcanic disaster.

Their mother rushed in from the kitchen holding two phones and a laptop under one arm. “What’s burning?”

“Barry’s future,” muttered Alfie.

Mrs Brand didn’t even look properly. She was emailing somebody in Singapore while talking to somebody in Birmingham.

“Right,” she said vaguely. “No more burning things.”

“Okay,” said Barry cheerfully.

He immediately began wondering whether crumpets were flammable.

It was Friday night in London, which meant the roads were terrible, the rain was sideways, and Mr and Mrs Brand were preparing for something incredibly rare:

A meal together without children.

“We are going to the Ritz,” announced Mrs Brand grandly.

Barry looked up from attempting to put blueberries inside Marmaduke’s ears.

“Why?”

“For dinner.”

“Can’t you have fish fingers here?”

Mr Brand loosened his tie. “Because Daddy and Mummy would like one evening without hearing the word ‘poo’ shouted across the house.”

“That seems unlikely,” said Alfie.

Alfie was correct.

The babysitter arrived at six o’clock sharp.

Her name was Chloe.

Chloe wore enormous white trainers that looked like they might be correcting an orthopaedic problem, carried a tiny handbag smaller than Barry’s lunchbox, and smelled faintly of expensive perfume and poor decisions.

“Hiyaa,” she said, without enthusiasm.

Mrs Brand looked relieved in the desperate way only exhausted parents can. “Thank you SO much for coming.”

“No worries,” said Chloe, already scrolling on her phone.

Barry stared at her.

Children can sense weakness the way sharks smell blood.

“Are you old?” Barry asked.

Chloe blinked. “I’m nineteen.”

Barry gasped. “That’s nearly dead.”

Alfie covered his face.

Marmaduke arrived moments later for a sleepover carrying a backpack full of biscuits and one sock.

Marmaduke was Barry’s best friend, mainly because he never questioned anything Barry suggested.

Barry once convinced him pigeons were government spies and Marmaduke had spent three weeks saluting them.

“Evening, Mrs Brand,” Marmaduke’s mum said. “Good luck,” she nodded to Chloe. 

“No,” said Alfie quietly, “that’s what people say before shipwrecks.”

Mr and Mrs Brand finally escaped around seven-thirty after giving Chloe seventeen instructions she absolutely did not listen to.

“Bedtime at eight for Barry and Marmaduke, eight-thirty for Alfie.”

“Yep.”

“No sweets after dinner.”

“Sure.”

“No screens late at night.”

“Mmhm.”

“And absolutely no—”

The front door shut.

Chloe was already taking selfies.

For a brief moment, the house was silent.

Then Barry smiled.

It was the smile of a tiny criminal mastermind.

“Right,” he whispered to Marmaduke, “operation Night Shark.”

“What’s operation Night Shark?”

“No idea yet.”

Marmaduke nodded. “Excellent.”

Alfie folded his arms. “I’m telling you now: whatever this is, I’m not involved.”

Barry ignored him.

He climbed onto the sofa beside Chloe.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Watching TikToks.”

“What’s TikToks?”

“Videos.”

“Can I watch?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re not for kids.”

Barry stared at the screen anyway.

A woman was teaching her dog yoga.

“This seems stupid,” Barry announced.

Chloe snorted unexpectedly.

For the first time all evening, she looked mildly interested in being alive.

An hour later she ordered takeaway pizza because cooking “felt emotionally aggressive.”

Barry considered this the greatest babysitting decision ever made.

By eight-thirty, Alfie was in pyjamas reading quietly like a Victorian orphan while Barry and Marmaduke had consumed approximately their own body weight in garlic bread.

“Bedtime,” said Chloe.

“No,” said Barry.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Chloe sighed the sigh of somebody who had never previously encountered a child refusing instructions.

“Barry, you have to go upstairs.”

Barry narrowed his eyes.

Negotiations had begun.

“What if,” he said slowly, “we do a deal?”

Alfie looked alarmed. “Don’t bargain with him. That’s how the hamster died.”

Chloe leaned back lazily. “What deal?”

“You let us stay up ten more minutes.”

“No.”

“Five minutes.”

“No.”

“Two minutes and Marmaduke will eat an olive.”

Marmaduke looked horrified.

“No deal,” said Chloe.

Barry thought for a moment.

Then he deployed his ultimate weapon.

He fell dramatically onto the carpet and began fake crying at maximum volume.

“I MISS MY PARENTS!”

Alfie rolled his eyes so hard it nearly caused a weather event.

Chloe panicked instantly. “OH GOD. Okay fine. Ten minutes.”

Barry sat up immediately. “Excellent.”

Alfie whispered, “You are everything wrong with modern society.”

The ten minutes became thirty.

Then forty-five.

Then somehow Chloe’s boyfriend Kyle arrived.

Kyle had a moustache attempting to become a beard and wore a hoodie that said CRYPTO IS LIFE.

“Hope that’s cool,” Chloe said.

“No,” said Alfie immediately.

Kyle grinned. “Who wants snacks?”

Barry’s hand shot up so fast he nearly dislocated his shoulder.

Soon the living room looked like a service station exploded.

Haribo packets.

Crisps.

Chocolate buttons.

Fizzy cola bottles.

Marmaduke drank an entire can of lemonade and burped loud enough to frighten the dog next door.

Meanwhile Chloe lay upside down on the sofa watching reality tv while Kyle introduced Barry to Mr Beast videos.

Barry was mesmerised.

“A man gave someone a private island?”

“Yep.”

“Can I have one?”

Kyle laughed. “Sure, mate.”

Barry nodded seriously. “I’ll ask Dad.”

By ten-thirty, Alfie had attempted responsibility several times.

“Barry should be asleep.”

Nobody listened.

“Marmaduke has eaten six packets of sweets.”

Nobody cared.

Alfie stared at the ceiling as if asking heaven for strength.

At eleven o’clock Barry discovered his reserve energy.

Not ordinary energy.

The terrifying sugar-powered madness only available to preschoolers and drunk university students.

He sprinted through the hallway wearing a tea towel as a cape.

“I AM NIGHT SHARK!”

Marmaduke followed him holding a toilet brush.

“I AM HIS LAWYER!”

Nobody knew what that meant, including Marmaduke.

Barry then decided the stairs were a mountain and attempted to climb them using only pillows.

This ended exactly how everyone except Barry predicted.

THUMP.

Silence.

Then:

“I’M OKAY.”

Alfie found him upside down inside the laundry basket.

“I warned you.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I literally said, ‘Barry, you’ll fall into the laundry basket.’”

Barry considered this.

“Still counts as climbing.”

At half past eleven Chloe finally attempted parenting again.

“Right. Bed. Seriously.”

Barry was now vibrating with sugar.

“I can hear colours.”

“That’s not a thing,” said Alfie.

“It is now.”

Marmaduke suddenly looked pale.

“I think my tummy’s making decisions.”

And with that, he vomited spectacularly into a decorative plant pot.

Chloe screamed.

Kyle yelled, “BRO.”

Alfie calmly fetched kitchen roll because somebody in this house apparently had to be an adult.

Midnight arrived.

Barry was still awake.

More awake, in fact, than any human had ever been.

He sat cross-legged beside Kyle watching YouTube videos at full brightness while chewing Haribo like a tiny caffeinated goblin.

Chloe had finally fallen asleep on the sofa with one shoe missing.

Marmaduke was snoring under the dining table.

Alfie sat halfway up the stairs, determined to remain morally superior even while exhausted.

Then the front door opened.

Mr and Mrs Brand entered quietly, smiling dreamily.

“We actually had a conversation,” whispered Mrs Brand.

“And nobody asked me to wipe anything,” said Mr Brand emotionally.

They stepped into the living room.

And froze.

The scene before them looked less like babysitting and more like the aftermath of a small natural disaster.

Haribo everywhere.

Pizza boxes stacked like archaeological ruins.

A sleeping babysitter drooling slightly onto a cushion.

Marmaduke unconscious beneath the table clutching a breadstick.

Alfie asleep sitting upright on the stairs like a tiny overworked security guard.

And Barry…

Barry sat beside Kyle watching Mr Beast videos with eyes wider than satellite dishes.

“HELLO FATHER,” Barry shouted.

Mr Brand blinked slowly.

“Why are you still awake?”

Barry laughed hysterically.

“I DON’T THINK I’LL EVER SLEEP AGAIN.”

Kyle looked awkward. “In my defence, he asked what cryptocurrency was.”

Mrs Brand stared at Chloe.

“Is she asleep?”

“Yes,” said Alfie weakly without opening his eyes. “She’s been dead to the world since eleven-fifteen.”

Barry bounced onto the sofa cushions.

“Mummy! If Mr Beast gave me a million pounds I’d buy twenty dogs and a flamethrower!”

“No flamethrowers,” sighed Mrs Brand automatically.

“Okay. Nineteen dogs.”

Mr Brand removed his glasses.

“How much sugar has he had?”

Nobody answered.

Barry suddenly gasped.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“I forgot to brush my teeth.”

Then he sprinted upstairs at 12:17am singing the Paw Patrol theme tune at military volume.

Mr and Mrs Brand stood silently in the wreckage.

Finally Alfie spoke.

“I tried,” he said quietly.

Mr Brand patted his shoulder. “We know.”

From upstairs came a crash.

Then Barry shouting:

“GOOD NEWS EVERYONE! THE TOILET BRUSH FITS IN THE BIDET!”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

“The Ritz was lovely,” she said faintly.

Three hours later Barry was still awake asking impossible questions like:

“Could a shark beat Batman?”

“Why don’t grown-ups just eat cake for breakfast?”

“Can penguins do crime?”

At 3:41am he finally fell asleep sideways across his parents’ bed holding a packet of melted Haribo.

The next morning Chloe apologised repeatedly while trying to find her other trainer.

“It’s okay,” said Mrs Brand with the hollow expression of somebody surviving entirely on caffeine and regret.

Kyle gave Barry a fist bump before leaving.

“You’re a legend, mate.”

Barry nodded proudly.

Then he looked at his exhausted parents.

“Can Chloe babysit again tonight?”

Mr and Mrs Brand burst into laughter so intense it sounded slightly unhinged.

“No,” said Alfie firmly from the table. “Absolutely not. Society barely survived the first time.”

Barry shrugged.

Then he brightened suddenly.

“Can Marmaduke and I make waffles?”

Alfie stood up instantly.

“No.”