Illustration inspired by Eva Wiseman’s article for the Guardian about turning 40 in the midst of a pandemic
Never have I needed a party more. The month-long lead-up, the quiet texts from friends asking politely if I’ve invited their exes, the gorgeous anxiety of worrying absolutely nobody will come. And then the day, with its perfunctory hoovering and rearranging of shelves – the walking into an empty room again and again attempting to see it as others might, the ceremonial bowling up of crisps. Evening, the noisy hairdryer over the noisy record player, the lover-like laying of dress on bed. Lamplighting, a candle that threatens to burn down the bunting, and just when doubt kicks in about the very fine threads of friendship you have sewn across years and postcodes, the best music in the world – a doorbell, right on time. It gets dark and someone’s smoking inside.
You lose control of the music around the time the hummus runs out, and soon a girl will be shouting in your ear about love or buses. Because age is real, someone will mournfully leave then to pay a babysitter, and their face will disappear ghostlike in an Uber window. At some point there are no more photos taken, and two people are slow dancing in the kitchen to Kermit’s Rainbow Connection, and the hem of your dress is wet so you tuck it into your tights. It’s no surprise who’s still there at dawn, or who is part-dead on the sofa when you’re quietly decanting old drinks in the morning, or who texts for your sister’s number the following day, or who orders a pizza with you when evening rudely returns. Ah, to know again the sweet ignorance of eating cake someone has blown on. The carefree joy of trying a stranger’s cocktail, the casual hello hug of some you barely care for. Never have I needed a party more.
Never have I needed a party more. The month-long lead-up, the quiet texts from friends asking politely if I’ve invited their exes, the gorgeous anxiety of worrying absolutely nobody will come. And then the day, with its perfunctory hoovering and rearranging of shelves – the walking into an empty room again and again attempting to see it as others might, the ceremonial bowling up of crisps. Evening, the noisy hairdryer over the noisy record player, the lover-like laying of dress on bed. Lamplighting, a candle that threatens to burn down the bunting, and just when doubt kicks in about the very fine threads of friendship you have sewn across years and postcodes, the best music in the world – a doorbell, right on time. It gets dark and someone’s smoking inside.
You lose control of the music around the time the hummus runs out, and soon a girl will be shouting in your ear about love or buses. Because age is real, someone will mournfully leave then to pay a babysitter, and their face will disappear ghostlike in an Uber window. At some point there are no more photos taken, and two people are slow dancing in the kitchen to Kermit’s Rainbow Connection, and the hem of your dress is wet so you tuck it into your tights. It’s no surprise who’s still there at dawn, or who is part-dead on the sofa when you’re quietly decanting old drinks in the morning, or who texts for your sister’s number the following day, or who orders a pizza with you when evening rudely returns. Ah, to know again the sweet ignorance of eating cake someone has blown on. The carefree joy of trying a stranger’s cocktail, the casual hello hug of some you barely care for. Never have I needed a party more.
“You lose control of the music around the time the hummus runs out, and soon a girl will be shouting in your ear about love or buses”