It’s Friday night and my boyfriend and I are arranging balloons from Moonpig in the shape of watermelons in the communal garden of the block of flats I live in. The wind makes them bend like pole-jumpers over a bar and we’re both quite sure it’s about to pour with rain. We’ve arranged a table with a very large amount of booze next to a small barbecue, lit a fire pit and covered the lone bench with rugs and cushions as though it’s still alright to sit outside near September.
“What if no-one comes,” I grimace at Gregor, my partner. “They’ll come,” he says, then looks less sure. “Rose will come,” he edits. I look at the table of alcohol, which contains two beer kegs, twelve bottles of wine, canned cocktails and more spirits than a Catholic church and wonder how safe it will be for said 84-year-old neighbour to try to help us consume them.
