Saturday, early April, and the house that James and I share was already slipping into its familiar weekend rhythm. I was lounging on the sofa, thumbing through a stack of homemagazine clippings and making a shopping list for the afternoon shop before the drizzle set in. Outside, the last bits of wet snow were melting into shallow puddles that glittered with patches of icy sludge. By the front door a tiny island of wellworn Wellington boots and soft house slippers had already taken up residence.
James, ever the earlybird hobbyist, was at the kitchen table fiddling with his coffee grinder, trying to nail the perfect grind for a new blend of beans. He glanced up from his mug.
Fancy a snack? he asked, smiling. I just found a recipe for cottagecheese fritters without semolina.
I smiled back. My plans were simple: have breakfast together, then each go off to our own chores. I was about to answer when a bright knock echoed down the hallway.
Standing there was our neighbour, Claire, from the flat opposite. She looked a little more flustered than usual, one arm cradling a boy of about eight or nineneither a stranger nor a familiar face.
Sorry to barge in, she said breathlessly. Ive got an emergency at work and my husband is stuck somewhere between the M25 and the moon. Could you look after Oliver for a couple of hours? Hes quiet heres his backpackhes got a little dinosaur toy in it.
She handed me the small pack.
Hes just had breakfast, so he doesnt need much feedingjust a few apples, please.
James looked at me; I shrugged. Who else would say yes so quickly? Neighbours sometimes need a hand. We both nodded at Claire.
Of course, let him stay. No worries.
Oliver stepped over the threshold, eyes darting from the floor to the ceiling, curiosity in every twitch. His boots left fresh, damp prints on the mat, adding to the growing gallery of footprints. Claire rushed through the details: his parents phones were always on hand; call us if anythings amiss; no allergies; he loves cartoons about animals. She planted a quick kiss on his forehead and vanished back out the door.
Oliver slipped off his jacket and hung it on the coat hook by the radiator, right next to our coats. The flat seemed a shade dimmer than his own home because of the heavy drapes in the sitting room, but the scent of fresh coffee mixed with warm radiator air was comforting.
So, Oliver, I asked, do you want to watch a cartoon or play something?
He shrugged.
Maybe something about dinosaurs? Or we could build something
The first halfhour passed quietly. James turned on a dinosaur cartoon for Oliver and then retreated to his phone to read the news. I kept thumbing through the magazines, stealing glances at our unexpected guest perched on the rug with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Even after three backtoback adverts, the feeling that this was only a temporary arrangement didnt fade.
By oneoclock the adult world started to melt away like the March snow under the radiator. Claire texted: Sorry! Were stuck in traffic, will be back by evening. A few minutes later Olivers father called, his voice apologetic.
Hey there! Thanks a lot, well be there soon. Everything alright over there?
I reassured him.
All good! No worries at all.
I hung up and turned to James.
It looks like well have to change our lunch plans
He spread his hands.
Guess well get a bit of an adventure out of it.
Olivers natural innocence smoothed over the first awkwardness. He showed us his tiny collection of three dinosaur figurines and asked if he could help with the cooking.
James slipped into the kitchen with surprising ease, pulling out eggs for an omelette. Oliver cracked shells against the bowls rimmost of the shells missed the bowl, but he was determined. The kitchen filled with the smell of buttered toast; the boy whisked batter with a wooden spoon until it took on a gritty, concretelike texture.
While we debated which film to put on for an eightyearoldanything from The Lion King to classic British comediesOliver quietly gathered all the cushions from the sofa into one massive pile by the coffee table. Within minutes it became the main expedition camp for the entire flat, open to anyone regardless of age or height.
Outside, early evening was settling in far too soon for the end of March. Street lamps reflected in the puddles like fireflies on a snowy road.
When Olivers parents called again, this time both of them, it became clear they wouldnt be home that night.
James was the first to break the silence after the call.
Looks like weve got a sleepover on our hands! What do you think?
I looked at Oliver, his grin wide as he surveyed his new pillow fort, excitement sparkling in his eyes.
Then its settledapartment camp! James declared with a flourish. Lets sort out dinner. Whos in charge of the menu?
The three of us cooked together and it turned out to be surprisingly fun for grownups used to routine. Oliver peeled a potato, managing to make one piece almost perfectly square; James coordinated the chopping of salad veg; I laid out plastic platesafter all, a camp needs its own atmosphere.
Rain drummed louder on the windowsill while we chatted about favourite childhood films (each of us from a different era), school mishaps (Oliver recounted a story about a maths teacher and a plastic lizard), and laughed easily, as if we were no longer strangers. The scent of stewed vegetables and the soft glow of the kitchen lamp made the room feel cosy.
In the living room, wed erected an improvised tent city by draping sheets over the backs of the sofa. Inside, the rules of the camp were simple: whispers only, and hide from the forest spiritsa role claimed by a plush hippopotamus. By the time the clock had long passed the usual bedtime, no one even thought to remind Oliver of a bedtime schedule.
The makeshift campsite held up remarkably: the sheets stayed in place, the cushions served as both walls and bedding. Oliver, now in a toolarge neighbours pyjamas, settled into the centre of the fort with his plush hippo and the dinosaur backpack neatly folded nearby.
I brought a mug of warm milk and a plate of biscuits.
Heres your nightration for the expedition, I announced solemnly.
James, for some reason, strapped a kitchen towel around his head like a bandana.
Our camp charter says after lights out we speak only in whispers! he whispered, winking at Oliver, who gave a conspiratorial nod and pretended to be busy tunnelling another pillow passage.
The evening stretched longer than any of us were accustomed to. We read funny stories about a clumsy bear (renaming the characters after our neighbours), debated what wed pack for a real hike, and James recollected his first nightaway at a friends househow hed been scared of the alien wallpaper, yet spent the next week dreaming of building his own fort of chairs. I talked about family trips to the countryside and the time I lost a slipper in a snowdrift right outside the porch.
Oliver listened attentively, interjecting with occasional questionswhy do adults love reminiscing about the past? Why does everyone have their own spooky tale? He spoke calmly about school and classmates, more relaxed than in daylight, and nobody pulled at his sleeve or interrupted him. At one point he confessed:
I thought it would be boring but it feels like a celebration.
I laughed.
See? The company is what matters.
Gradually the conversation faded. Outside, the street was almost swallowed by darkness; only occasional cars threw thin ribbons of light through the curtains. A halfdrunk cup of tea and a piece of crusty bread remained on the kitchen table, untouched. The flat was suffused with a pleasant, light fatigue, as if wed all lived a day a little longer than usual.
I tucked Oliver into his pillow tent, pulling over a soft yellowstriped blanketone my own mother had given me as a child. He settled comfortably. At his request I read him another story, about a town where paper boats sail across spring puddles at night. After the tale we sat in silence.
Are you scared without mum? he asked.
No its fun, just a bit odd.
Tomorrow morning everything will be back to normal but if you ever want to stay again, youre always welcome.
His eyes drooped and closed almost instantly.
When Olivers breathing steadied into a gentle rhythm, I slipped into the kitchen to find James still at the table, phone in hand. A message from Claire had just come through: Weve finally made it home, all good. Well be back early tomorrow.
I sighed.
Never expected an evening like this
James lowered his chair onto the stool next to me.
Neither did I but it turned out cozier than any family night weve had lately.
We exchanged a quiet look, both understanding that this was a rare moment of connectionnot just with a neighbours child, but with each other.
The radiators heat filled the kitchen; the only sounds were the rain outside and Olivers soft breathing from the livingroom doorway. James suddenly asked:
What if we made these little camps a regular thing? Not just for kids
I smirked.
Adults need an unscheduled break too.
We agreed to try it at least once a monthmaybe just for a shared dinner or a board game.
Morning arrived bright and cheerful; a shaft of sunlight cut through the heavy curtains and landed on the floor by the heater. The hallway smelled of fresh airsomeone had flung the front window open wide to air out the flat after the nights adventure.
Oliver woke a little before us, slipped out of his fort, and spent a while admiring the magnet collection on the fridge before helping me set the breakfast table: toast with cheese and a jar of apple puree. He seemed pleased with the simple camp menu.
Soon the parents arrived. Claire looked tired but grateful; Olivers father immediately peppered his son with questions about the night, and Oliver proudly reported on his pillow fort. James recounted the whole storywhere we slept, what we ate, which films we watched.
Just before they left, Oliver asked, Can I come again? Not just when mums busy just because?
I laughed.
Of course! We now have an apartment camp every Saturday.
The parents agreed without hesitation and even promised to bring a memoryboosting board game next timesomething useful for all generations.
When the neighbours door shut and the flat fell quiet again, James turned to me.
Should we invite anyone else next time?
I shrugged.
Well see The important thing is weve got our little secret against dull weekends.
Both of us felt a bit younger, as if wed truly performed a small miracle in the ordinary world.
