Who's the Daddy: Firing up a night with friends

Sure, a few beers and glasses of Prosecco in the garden with four friends felt as liberating as the first night of a two-week all-inclusive holiday. But hell’s teeth, sitting around at dusk in early April isn’t great for middle-aged backs, knees, shoulders, elbows and necks is it?

The rusting fire pit, hauled out of the shed for the first time in months, did its very best to keep the party going. But even though it is possible to ignore reality, you can’t ignore the consequences of avoiding reality and by 9pm we had to admit the icy chill had beaten us and we called it a night.

But for those few golden hours, as the ice cold booze slipped down easy and for the first time in months we spoke face-to-face with people who we don’t actually live with, it was magical.

I’ll never take a quick drink in a pub for ever granted again. £5 a pint, you say? I’d gladly pay double AND leave a hefty tip. It’s a price worth paying.

But you know you’re truly past it when your perfectly thorough and genuinely enjoyable evening with people you’ve known for 20 years comes to a natural end a full hour before your 21-year-old daughter’s Covid compliant night out with a handful of friends even begins. Oh how she laughed - at us.

We’d been fast asleep for a full six hours when the key turned in the lock and daughter #1 crept upstairs to bed just after 4.30am.

Maybe that’s the future of the post-Covid night-time economy. A happy hour or two for the Darby and Joans, then a klaxon goes off around 9pm and we’re spirited off home to make way for the young ‘uns who call it a night at dawn. Think I might be on to something here.

So that’s the next few nights out sorted, Arctic winds, snow, rain, hail and sleet permitting. Shivering half to death around a flickering fire pit in someone’s garden after the wood’s run out and everything in the recycling bin’s been torched.

I don’t know about you but I cannot physically wait.