Pyjama party

There are some evenings that sensible adults spend quietly.

A cup of tea.

A good book.

Perhaps a documentary narrated by someone who whispers dramatically about penguins.

This was not one of those evenings.

It was Saturday.

Mr Brand had disappeared to Leicestershire to help Grandma Brand with a few jobs around her house, which mostly involved fixing shelves she’d somehow managed to fill with yet more teapots.

That left Mrs Brand, Barry, Alfie… and, a few doors down, Marjory Jackson and Marmaduke.

Marjory and Mrs Brand had first met during Freshers’ Week at university nearly twenty-four years earlier.

Within forty-eight hours they’d accidentally dyed someone’s washing pink, got locked out of their student accommodation wearing dressing gowns, and become lifelong friends.

Their university class reunion had taken place a few weeks before.

Neither of them had gone.

“We’ve already seen everyone looking awkward on social media,” Mrs Brand had said.

“And I don’t need to pay fifty pounds to discover Simon still plays acoustic guitar,” Marjory had replied.

So instead they’d organised something much better.

A Housemate Reunion.

Only this time there were children involved.

Which, as history repeatedly demonstrated, was both delightful and an absolutely dreadful idea.

By six o’clock the Jacksons had re-arrived. Marjory had been cleaning a few bits in preparation for the builders and plumbers on Monday. Marmaduke had let himself into the Brands’ house just before breakfast, but had been collected by Marjory, showered and clad in PJs to return.

“Pyjamas compulsory!” announced Mrs Brand.

Barry appeared wearing dinosaurs.

Marmaduke had spaceships.

Alfie wore plain navy pyjamas because he claimed anything with cartoons was “for younger children.”

Barry looked at him sympathetically.

“You’ll have more fun when you’re four.”

“I’m eight.”

“Exactly.”

Mrs Brand connected her phone to the speaker.

“What shall we play?”

Marjory grinned.

“Oh…”

She scrolled.

“…I have an idea.”

A second later the kitchen exploded with early 1990s house music.

The sort with piano riffs, energetic vocals and enough enthusiasm to wake neighbours three streets away.

Marjory threw both arms into the air.

“Oh, this takes me back!”

Mrs Brand immediately joined in.

“Oh my goodness! We used to dance to this in the kitchen!”

Barry blinked.

“You were alive in the olden days?”

The music stopped.

Mrs Brand looked horrified.

“The olden days?”

Barry nodded.

“Before Wi-Fi.”

Marjory laughed so hard she nearly fell into the fruit bowl.

Within moments the kitchen had transformed into a disco.

The lights were dimmed.

A little disco lamp from the Christmas decorations was found.

Nobody knew why it had ever been bought.

Nobody questioned it.

Alfie folded his arms.

“I’m only dancing because physical exercise is healthy.”

Barry whispered to Marmaduke,

“He’s pretending.”

“I know.”

The boys grabbed wooden spoons and used them as microphones.

Marjory demonstrated dance moves from the 1990s.

Mrs Brand remembered approximately half of them.

The other half appeared to involve stretching muscles she’d forgotten she owned.

“Ooh…” she winced.

“I’ve pulled something.”

“Your dignity?” asked Marjory.

“It left years ago.”

After twenty minutes everyone collapsed laughing.

Mrs Brand announced,

“Time for drinking games!”

Barry gasped.

“WE GET DRINKS?”

“Yes.”

“REAL drinks?”

“Water and orange juice.”

Barry considered this.

“I’ll allow it.”

Tiny plastic shot glasses appeared.

Barry looked at his suspiciously.

“It’s very little.”

“That’s because it’s pretend.”

“Can I have pretend cola?”

“No.”

The games began.

If someone answered a question correctly, everyone took a tiny shot.

If someone laughed, tiny shot.

If someone forgot the rules, tiny shot.

If someone accidentally said “um…”, tiny shot.

Barry deliberately said “um” eighteen times.

“I’M WINNING!”

“You are absolutely not winning,” laughed Alfie.

“I’ve had seven waters!”

“You’ve had seven tiny sips.”

“My tummy feels very hydrated.”

Next came silly dares.

“Hop round the kitchen like a kangaroo.”

Tiny orange juice.

“Sing Happy Birthday in an opera voice.”

Tiny water.

“Balance a cushion on your head.”

Tiny orange juice.

Barry loved every second.

Marmaduke copied every single thing Barry did.

Even the unnecessary bits.

When Barry saluted the toaster…

Marmaduke saluted it too.

Alfie sighed.

“I don’t think the toaster is in the army.”

Barry whispered,

“It might be undercover.”

The toaster remained professionally silent.

Then Marjory announced,

“Dance challenge!”

Everyone froze.

Even Alfie.

“No…” he muttered.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Definitely yes.”

The music restarted.

Marjory produced what she insisted was “The Shopping Trolley.”

Mrs Brand countered with “The Lawnmower.”

Barry invented “The Angry Flamingo.”

Nobody knew what it was.

Least of all Barry.

It mostly involved hopping on one foot while pretending to flap at invisible bees.

Marmaduke copied him exactly.

Within seconds both boys fell over.

Still dancing.

Half an hour later everyone was hot, giggly and hungry.

Mrs Brand picked up her phone.

“Pizza?”

“YES!” shouted Barry.

“Sushi?” asked Marjory.

“YES!” shouted Marmaduke.

Alfie frowned.

“Can you order vegetables too?”

The room fell silent.

Barry slowly turned.

“Are…are you feeling alright?”

“I just think a balanced meal is sensible.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“We’ll order cucumber sushi.”

Alfie nodded approvingly.

Barry whispered,

“He’s impossible.”

Waiting for takeaway with children takes approximately nine years.

Or twenty-three minutes.

Whichever feels longer.

Barry began inspecting cupboards.

Marmaduke followed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m exploring.”

“Why?”

“There might be treasure.”

“There isn’t.”

“You don’t know until you’ve looked.”

This logic was surprisingly difficult to argue with.

Eventually Barry discovered…

cocktail umbrellas.

Hundreds of them.

Left over from some long-forgotten summer barbecue.

His eyes sparkled.

“We’re rich.”

Marmaduke looked equally amazed.

“We can open a beach.”

Within minutes every soft toy in the house had tiny cocktail umbrellas.

The teddy bear looked particularly glamorous.

The doorbell rang.

“FOOD!”

The boys sprinted.

Alfie called,

“Remember your manners!”

Barry opened the door.

“HELLO PIZZA MAN!”

The delivery driver smiled.

“Good evening.”

Barry looked at the stack of boxes.

“You’ve brought happiness.”

“I hope so.”

“You definitely have.”

The dining table looked magnificent.

Pizza.

Sushi.

Garlic bread.

Chicken bites.

Vegetable sticks for Alfie.

Dipping sauces.

Juices.

Everyone tucked in.

Barry bravely tried sushi.

He chewed thoughtfully.

“Hmm.”

“What do you think?” asked Marjory.

“It tastes…fancy.”

“What does fancy taste like?”

“I don’t know.”

“But this is it.”

Marmaduke discovered wasabi.

Barry warned him.

“It’s spicy.”

“I like spicy.”

He ate a large amount.

There was silence.

Then…

“HIC!”

His eyes watered.

His ears turned pink.

His nose ran.

Mrs Brand calmly handed him milk.

Marjory tried not to laugh.

Barry whispered,

“I did warn him.”

“You did.”

“I feel very responsible.”

After dinner came the grand finale.

Scrabble.

Barry looked suspicious.

“Is this homework?”

“No.”

“It’s fun.”

“Those words don’t usually go together.”

Teams were chosen.

Mrs Brand and Barry.

Marjory and Marmaduke.

Alfie volunteered to score because, in his words, “Someone needs to ensure fairness.”

Of course he did.

Barry picked up seven letters.

“I’ve got Q.”

“Excellent.”

“What does it do?”

“It makes words.”

“It seems lazy.”

The first few turns went well.

CAT.

CRATE.

TREE.

EGG

Then Barry decided normal words were boring.

He confidently arranged letters.

“Look!”

Alfie adjusted his glasses.

“Barry…”

“Yes?”

“‘BLOOBLE’ isn’t a word.”

“It should be.”

“It isn’t.”

“What about ‘SNORFLE’?”

“No.”

“‘WIBBLYBOTTOM’?”

“Definitely not.”

Mrs Brand tried not to smile.

“I actually quite like Wibblybottom.”

Marjory nodded.

“It sounds like someone we knew at university.”

Barry became increasingly creative.

“Moonpickle.”

“No.”

“Fluffcano.”

“No.”

“Cheesepants.”

Marjory laughed so hard orange juice nearly came out of her nose.

“I vote yes.”

Alfie remained unmoved.

“Scrabble has rules.”

Barry looked disappointed.

“Rules stop imagination.”

“They also stop chaos.”

Barry looked around the room.

The disco light was still spinning.

Half the soft toys wore cocktail umbrellas.

There were pizza crusts balanced on napkins.

Marmaduke had somehow acquired soy sauce on one eyebrow.

Mrs Brand and Marjory were laughing at absolutely everything. (It might have been the wine!)

Barry smiled proudly.

“I think chaos already won.”

Near bedtime everyone curled up on the enormous sofa.

The music was quieter now.

Just gentle background tunes.

The excitement had finally begun to wear off.

Barry rested against Mrs Brand.

Marmaduke leaned against Marjory.

Alfie was pretending not to be sleepy.

Failing spectacularly.

Mrs Brand smiled.

“You know…”

“What?”

“This reminds me of when Marjory and I were students.”

“Were you naughty?” Barry asked.

Marjory looked at Mrs Brand.

Mrs Brand looked at Marjory.

Then they both burst into laughter.

“Oh…” said Marjory.

“We definitely had adventures.”

“Did you have discos?”

“Yes.”

“Pizza?”

“Sometimes.”

“Scrabble?”

“Occasionally.”

“Were you sensible?”

Another silence.

Mrs Brand finally answered.

“We…became sensible.”

“Eventually.”

Alfie nodded.

“That’s reassuring.”

Barry smiled.

“I hope I don’t become sensible until I’m at least…thirty.”

Mrs Brand kissed the top of his head.

“I think you’ve got plenty of time.”

After teeth were brushed—eventually.

After Marmaduke remembered where he’d left his toothbrush—which turned out to be in the toy box.

After Barry insisted every teddy needed to be wished goodnight individually.

After Alfie checked every downstairs window because “it’s part of a sensible bedtime routine.”

The three boys climbed into their sleeping bags in the living room.

The fairy lights twinkled.

The house was peaceful.

At last.

Mrs Brand whispered,

“Goodnight.”

Marjory smiled.

“Best reunion ever.”

Mrs Brand nodded.

“No awkward speeches.”

“No name badges.”

“No pretending to remember people.”

“No Simon and his guitar.”

They both giggled.

From the darkness Barry’s sleepy voice appeared.

“Who’s Simon?”

“A very long story,” whispered Marjory.

“Worse than wasabi?”

“Much worse.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

Then Barry mumbled,

“I’m glad you stayed home instead…”

Everyone smiled.

Sometimes the very best reunions weren’t held in fancy hotels with old classmates.

Sometimes they happened in pyjamas, with loud music, tiny glasses of orange juice, questionable dance moves, made-up Scrabble words, too much pizza, a little sushi, and three very happy boys who fell asleep believing every Saturday night ought to include a kitchen disco.

And, if Barry had anything to do with it…

they probably would.