When I was 12, I backhanded my best friend Melissa in the face with a Wii remote with such velocity that we feared she was concussed. Importantly, this wasn’t a rage-filled attack but an accident during a particularly ferocious round of the game console’s e-version of tennis that left us both in tears of laughter, despite the agony of my clenched knuckles connecting with her right cheekbone.
Sleepovers are often filled with this haphazard hilarity, fuelled predominantly by giddy freedom and e-numbers. Still today, some of our friendship group’s favourite core memories are of these mad middle-of-the-night moments. Yet, as we entered into our adult years, we forgot about sleepovers for a while; swept up by work, relationships, and the fact we were paying our own rent: “Why would I want to sleep in your bed when I’ve got my own?” it’s easy to wonder when asked to stay the night.
