The Midults’ guide to…

Fun, glo­ri­ous fun

The Daily Telegraph - Telegraph Magazine - - Contents -

FUN, LIKE ICE CREAM and (un­for­tu­nately) con­doms, has many flavours. Many tex­tures. Dif­fer­ing de­grees of stick­i­ness and risk. Fun: not so sim­ple. Not in the end…


There you are, one, two, nearly five cock­tails down, and pos­si­bly you’ve had your first fag of the evening although you haven’t smoked in years (yes you have). And there’s still din­ner (and wine) to come and it’s al­ready 10pm and you don’t care, YOU LOVE THIS SONG. You start pay­ing for it at 4am when you wake up in your clothes and your make-up (although most of it is on the an­tique pil­low­case) with a mouth like a pet ceme­tery. By 2pm the next day you are a husk, des­per­ately try­ing to find a happy cor­ner in­side your bro­ken soul.


Also known as ‘im­prov­ing fun’. You ac­cept an in­vi­ta­tion from some­one you are slightly scared of, to the the­atre or an ex­hi­bi­tion in a real mu­seum. You wear your best ‘I am a lady ar­chi­tect’ out­fit of se­ri­ous clothes, and you nod and chat about Syria and Sylvia Plath. You ar­rive home lit from within by the art muses – ‘I am go­ing to do that more of­ten,’ you say. (You do not do it more of­ten.)


You are dragged out to a din­ner as a chore – it’s Love Is­land sea­son for good­ness sake, what is wrong with peo­ple? And yet half­way through the evening you re­alise that you are hav­ing a GOOD TIME: delicious food that’s com­ing quickly, funny fel­low guests who you don’t know that well… And then it’s 9.30pm and the her­bal tea is be­ing poured: the univer­sal sig­ni­fier for ‘we are wrap­ping this up in 45 min­utes’. You are al­most sad to leave. And that never hap­pens. Fire


It’s Satur­day morn­ing. You may be dressed as Scooby-doo be­cause you are help­ing out at a chil­dren’s party, or you are wear­ing gym kit be­cause you have vol­un­teered to do a 10k run for char­ity. De­spite the fact that you nearly die of em­bar­rass­ment when you see some­one you fancy, you en­joy your­self. You haven’t thought about the leak­ing roof/ the pos­si­bil­ity of hav­ing early-on­set Alzheimer’s for at least three hours.


You gaze at each other across the ta­ble, there’s a gang of you and you haven’t seen each other in ages, and there you are high on be­ing to­gether, to­tally, scream­ingly ab­sorbed in the de­light­ful­ness of be­ing with peo­ple you truly love. Ev­ery­one is jeal­ous of the bond­ing fun you are hav­ing. Like that St Elmo’s

lot. Be­fore it all went wrong.


This is rarely ac­tu­ally fun. Rounders in the park (all you can think about is track­ing down the near­est loo and are there crisps and when can you eat the crisps?). Or maybe some­one sug­gests a few games of ten­nis – so sea­sonal – and the whole thing is ut­terly hu­mil­i­at­ing as you serve end­lessly into the net. Or it could be a quiz night to raise money for a lo­cal thing, which be­gins with buck­ets of bon­homie and ends in vi­cious­ness when some­one on the other team asks for a re­count and no one talks to each other for weeks. And you think that, if you lived in Mid­somer, at least four peo­ple might have ended up dead.


Judg­ing from the In­sta sto­ries/tweets/ Snapchats (kid­ding)/face­book up­dates, you are hav­ing the MOST fun with the FUNNEST crowd in Fun­town. It’s so fun be­ing you. You are right smack in the heart of the party of the cen­tury. Later you can­not re­mem­ber if you talked to any­one.


You know you could. You know it’s pos­si­ble. It’s right there for the tak­ing, right now, you could, you know – but could you? You don’t. But you could have.


‘I am just go­ing to a meet­ing about that thing,’ you say. But re­ally you are sneak­ing off for a mani/pedi or a mas­sage or a rum­mage in & Other Sto­ries or some Net­flix. No one knows where you are at this mo­ment, you think shiftily. Bliss.

No one knows where you are at this mo­ment, you think shiftily. Bliss

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