TPR never wanted to host this party and it showed. He put very little effort into the preparations, even though the numbers invited created a lot of extra work. We even promised fireworks. We felt obliged to open up the rooms at the back the house that we barely used to ensure that there would be enough space for everyone. Even the fine Georgian dining room with its pale green carpet and priceless antique furniture would be needed. I raced around placing table mats under multi-layered white linen tablecloths to protect the furniture, annoyed that TPR hadn’t thought of doing this himself. (I hadn’t realised how many brand new unused table mats we had stored away in one of the sideboards. I resolved to take this item off my Christmas list.)

When the guests first arrived they made a beeline for our bedroom. SC admired a photo of herself from 16 years ago that was propped up against the small side window. She had barely changed in almost two decades. In fact she had come to the party wearing the same green fruit and flower bedecked hat that she sported in the old photograph.

Then we heard a loud bang. We raced into the dining room. When we pushed the beige curtains aside from the window we saw TPR holding an extinguished match. “That’s the fireworks display over and done”, he said. “I thought it would be most efficient to let them all off at the same time”.