We pick up the child. The child staggers forward and falls. We laugh. We pick up the child. The child staggers forward and falls. We laugh. These nights are a joy. Somebody fills up my glass with red wine. I gulp it down. I go out into the back garden. ‘These parties are super,’ says Kitty. I nod. ‘I was afraid boredom was setting in,’ says Henry.

We exchanged partners, once. We thought it was the right thing to do. We placed our keys in a fruit bowl. During the picking, we sniggered. At the next party many confessed to sitting on the bed, drinking wine, and discussing the works of Lacan. Kitty said, ‘Henry and I watched Jules and Jim.’

The child staggers backwards and falls. We laugh. There have been many arguments, but never a fist fight. Peter’s wife once threw white wine in his face and he said, ‘the ladybird is as fierce as the moribund lion.’ We all laughed. Henry said, ‘the bedroom is a labyrinth housing many Minotaurs.’ I moaned. Peter and his wife made up and left. And Henry said, ‘day slips into night and night into day and the moon morphs into the sun and the sun morphs into the moon and now we have a characterless orb within the sheets.’ I cried.

The child cries and then laughs. Somebody fills up my glass with red wine. The child is weak from walking, falling, walking, falling. Some sit on the lush carpet in the front room. The child yawns. Some go into the kitchen for food. The child’s knees and elbows are red raw. There are spots of blood on the lush carpet. They pick up the child and throw the child into the air. They catch the child. We laugh. Somebody fills my glass with red wine. They throw the child into the air. The red wine is below par. The child swims. ‘’ said Henry. We meet every Friday night to drink, smoke, discuss art, literature, music and torture the child. Somebody will sneeze and somebody will say, ‘I cherish our poetic exchanges.’ We are so clever, so articulate, so fabulous. We each take turns hosting the party. The child is never the same child.