The band I’m in has a gig in Oxford. My wife decides to attend, which means I have her in the car both ways, along with all my stuff, all the drums and the drummer.
On the way there my wife and the drummer have a pleasant catch-up, but on the way back their conversation becomes animated and essentially mad. Halfway home the drummer starts describing people in terms of their star signs and my wife, tellingly, raises no objections.
“So Aquarians, on the other hand,” says the drummer. There is a long pause.
“Yes” my wife says. “What are they like?”
“Determined, of course,” says the drummer.
“I can’t imagine having to know when everyone’s birthday is,” I say.
“Anyway, anyway, anyway,” my wife says, impatiently.
There is no traffic, and we make good time. I’m looking forward to drinking the three beers I took from the dressing room. As we come off the A40, my wife turns to me.
“You know we’re heading into a shitstorm, don’t you?” she says.
“No,” I say. “A shitstorm of what?”
“Of young people,” she says. She explains that in conjunction with England’s first Euro 2016 match, she has authorised a gathering of up to 12.
“The match ended hours ago,” I say. “Will they still be there?”
“Are you kidding?” my wife says.
The scene that greets me in the kitchen is old school, literally: a bunch of boys from the youngest one’s old school. The new-school kids are gathered in the garden. To the horror and amazement of the old-school crowd, my wife sits down. She turns to the boy on her left, and hooks a thumb toward the garden door.
“Have you even been trying to join in?” she says.
“There’s a time for trying,” he says. “And a time for not trying. The time for trying is past.”
The youngest one comes in from the garden. He is holding a framed picture of himself in his school uniform, from year 7.
“Look!” my wife says, taking the picture.“My baby!” A sudden peal of laughter reaches us from elsewhere. “Are there girls here?” my wife says. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re upstairs,” says the youngest one. “Trying to find more pictures of me when I was little.”
“Right,” says my wife. She stands and leaves the room. The youngest one returns to the garden. I open one of my dressing room beers, and sit.
“So,” says one of the old-school crowd. “How was the gig?”
“Yeah, good,” I say. “How was the match?”
“Terrible,” he says. From upstairs I hear shrieks of merry laughter, and some regular shrieks.
The youngest one comes back into the kitchen holding his year 7 photo in one hand, and a picture of Ryan Gosling on his phone in the other, with his head stuck between them: an evolutionary tableau.
“Where’s Mum?” he says.
“I think she found the girls,” I say.
“Uh-oh,” he says, darting up the stairs. The old-school boys drift into the garden. I find myself briefly alone with my thoughts, which are confused and contradictory. I’m just tired, I think, or maybe it’s a Gemini thing. The youngest one comes back in and pulls a glass from the cupboard.
“What’s going on up there?” I say.
“It’s not good,” he says. “She just sent me down to get wine.”
“Uh-oh,” I say.
After a few more minutes I head upstairs. I poke my head through my wife’s office door: it looks like a sixth-form common room, with my wife seated centrally, a school bully holding court. All eyes turn toward me.
“There he is,” my wife says. “Did you bring the bottle?”
