The morning after the night before

Mystified, horrified, discombobulated? This is the look on the faces of the two twentysomethings carrying steaming mugs of coffee in the hall. We’ve just come face to face as I come out of my bedroom on a Sunday morning alongside my partner.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m Janet. And this is my partner.” Blank looks. “Eldest and Middle’s mum. And this is my partner. How are you?”

Still there is incomprehension. they look at me and they look at him and it’s clear they can’t compute. “Did you have a good night?” I say. “Er yeah. Thanks,” says one, rediscovering the power of speech, and they wander off, spooked, clearly wondering who these older people are in Youngest and Eldest’s flat. Are they landlords doing a spot check? Could they be renting out a room? Or maybe, scary thought, they were in the club with them last night, or at the after party – must have been a more out there night than they thought. And they wander off, shaking their heads, trying to remember.

I can see how it happened. The three guests came back in the early hours with Eldest, after partner and I had dozed off over a box set. They spent the night in various spare beds/floors, had a cooked breakfast and never saw hide nor hair of any parents. Obviously I didn’t venture into the kitchen while they were making breakfast because someone might have looked at me expectantly or asked me the best way to fry an egg because they weren’t very good at it… Plus Youngest brought us tea in bed. And the boydults probably never mentioned that The Olds were in situ because we’re all so used to rubbing along. No wonder they were horrified to be confronted with cheery parent types.

Later I’m making a meal. “Do your friends want some?” I ask Eldest.

“No, they went ages ago. Headed off early looking grey.”

And confused.