Tonight:
5°c
Having friends over for lunch is a fraught affair, even at the best of times involving a degree of washing up and hiding underwear. Still, I don't think the prospect has ever caused me to have actual nightmares.
On Saturday night, disturbing visions began to cloud my brain: of lovingly prepared food left untouched, of guests becoming restless and bored. I pictured spillages and breakages, cross words and mighty tantrums. Not 12 hours later, one of our guests was crawling up our window sill, pushing open the pane and threatening to jump - but now I appeared to be awake.
"Is he supposed to be doing that?" I wondered.
"No!" cried Alyson, his mother - and I dashed to move him away from the ledge, just in time.
"That's the thing about children," Tom, his father, said, once Joseph, five, had been diverted by some Lego. "They take your very worst fears and act them out." Greta, three, duly took up the colouring pencils and produced a piece of abstract expressionism which, had it been by Cy Twombly, would have been pronounced a work of prescient genius.
This was the first time my wife and I had hosted members of the milk-toothed community and, as more friends reach parentable age, I daresay it won't be the last. I mean absolutely no slight on Tom and Alyson's parenting when I say I was filled with trepidation.
Our flat is simply a fun-free zone. Our collection of toys is wanting. When I decided to prepare a child-pleasing trifle I had to be reminded that three and five-year-olds would not appreciate the amount of Grand Marnier I chucked in. I made an alternative dessert but its combination of cake and jelly made Greta cry ("I don't love it!" she explained).
Most of all, I worried about the lack of space. We live in a one-bedroom flat - which is fine for us but offers little room for a decent light-sabre battle. If we were to have children of our own, we would have to move to the suburbs, which suggests that inner London will soon become a child-free zone unless housing becomes more affordable.
In the end, we resorted to the magic of moving pictures to keep our guests placated. I offered my cherished DVD of Watership Down and though Joseph had his objections, Greta was keen on rabbits, so they sat watching on our bed as the grown-ups drank wine next door, going misty-eyed when snatches of Bright Eyes drifted through.
I was amazed how well it hushed them. Tom, however, had seen this kind of thing before: "They're quiet now. But when they have nightmares I take it you won't mind explaining the concept of bunny heaven over the phone at three in the morning?"
