The year I turned 40 in 2017, I vowed to have a party. I cannot overstate how out of character this was. Parties involve admin, tidying up, and plenty of potential for humiliation. I hate all these things. But, after five years of juggling tiny children with writing and a full-time university job, I longed for freedom and parties and fun.My birthday is the night before Guy Fawkes so I decided to gather my friends at the top of Primrose Hill, North , to watch the fireworks across the city. I imagined something out of a film: us giddy drunk in bobble hats, our upturned faces bathed in the green and gold trails across the sky.‘It’s November,’ my husband warned. ‘It will be cold.’ But organising a party, I figured, requires nothing if not audacity. I emailed friends, old and new. I bought paper cups and bottles of wine, and located my thermals. I sent out a reminder the week before and another the day before, agonising over the phrasing, not wanting to seem too desperate or too casual. I made brownies and wrapped them in tinfoil, and endlessly refreshed the weather app on my phone, praying it would not rain.
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