Party

There is never enough. She realised this as she stood looking at the buffet table she’d laid out a few hours previously.

A dozen 8-year-olds had really done a number on it, resembling one of the plagues of Egypt as they did so.

Mind you, a plague probably wouldn’t end up with chocolate all over its face and jelly up the walls.

The children were now in the other room, playing a game. The game appeared to involve knocking things over whilst shouting.

It was driving her to despair. She went into the kitchen and poured herself four fingers of Mr Smirnoff’s special painkiller.

The noise increased, so she poured herself another. And then another.

Her husband arrived home an hour and a half later.

The living room was trashed. A dozen 8-year-olds with crayons who are full of sugar can do quite a bit of damage. An awful Disney soundtrack was being played at what Spinal Tap would have called 11. He turned it off.

His wife was slumped over the kitchen table, snoring like a cheap motorcycle. He tried to wake her and saw that she was sporting a thick, black crayon moustache.

It was the most absurd thing he’d ever seen. He laughed until he could laugh no more, wondering when his life had turned into a cartoon.