Dear Diary,
It was a Saturday in early April, the sort of day when March finally yields to spring. In our little flat above Camden Road, the weekend routine settled in as usual. Simon was in the kitchen from the moment I woke, fiddling with his coffee grinder, trying to perfect the grind for a new batch of beans. I was thumbing through a stack of magazines on the sofa, scribbling a shopping list for the afternoon market, when the drizzle turned into a misty rain. Outside, the wet snow that had lingered was slowly melting, leaving puddles that glittered with patches of dirty ice on the pavement. By the front door a tiny island of wellworn rubber boots and house slippers had already formed.
Simon looked up from his mug.
Fancy a bite? he asked. Ive just found a recipe for cottagecheese fritters without semolina.
I smiled; my plans were simplehave breakfast together, then each go off to our own chores. I let out a sigh and was about to answer when a bright knock sounded on the hallway door.
On the threshold stood our neighbour, Sophie Marshall, from the flat opposite. She seemed a little more agitated than usual, cradling a boy of about eight or nine in one armsomeone wed seen around but didnt know well.
Sorry to barge in, she said, but Ive got an emergency at work and my husband is stuck somewhere between the M25 and the heavens. Could you look after Elliot for a couple of hours? Hes quiet his things are right here, she added, handing me a small backpack with a plastic dinosaur perched on its strap, Hes just had breakfast, but he does love apples.
Simon gave me a quick glance; I shrugged. Who else would say yes so quickly? Neighbours sometimes need a hand. We both nodded at Sophie.
Of course, let him stay. No worries.
Elliot stepped carefully over the threshold, eyeing the flat with a mixture of caution and curiosity. His boots left fresh, damp prints on the mat. Sophie gave a rapid rundown: keep his parents numbers handy, call us if anything comes up, he has no allergies, and he loves cartoons about animals. She kissed him on the forehead, hurried out, and the flat fell quiet again.
The boy hung his jacket on the hook by the radiator, next to our coats. The room seemed a shade darker than his own flat because of the heavy curtains, but it smelled pleasantfresh coffee mingling with the warm air from the heater.
So, Elliot, I asked, want to watch a cartoon or play something?
He shrugged. Maybe something about dinosaurs? Or we could build something
The first halfhour passed peacefully. Simon turned on DinoPark for Elliot and then slipped off to read the news on his phone. I kept flipping through the magazines, stealing glances at our unexpected guest, who had settled on the carpet in front of the TV with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Yet the feeling that this was only temporary lingered, even after three backtoback adverts.
By one oclock it became clear that adult plans were melting faster than the March snow on our radiators. Sophie sent a text: Sorry! Weve been stuck in traffic for an hour. Well try to be back this evening. Then Elliots dad called, his voice apologetic.
Thanks a lot, folks! Well be there sooneverything alright?
I reassured him. All good, dont worry.
I put the phone down and turned to Simon. Looks like well have to rethink lunch
He spread his hands. Well, itll be a good chance for some joint creativity.
Elliots innocent energy eased the first awkwardness. He showed us his tiny collection of three dinosaur figurines and asked if he could help in the kitchen. Simon, surprisingly, got involved with ease: he fetched eggs for an omelette, and Elliot cracked the shells against the bowls edgethough a few eggs missed the bowl entirely. The kitchen filled with the scent of buttered toast; the boy stirred the batter with a wooden spoon until it resembled a thick cement mix.
While we debated which film was suitable for an eightyearoldranging from The Lion King to classic British comediesElliot quietly piled every cushion from the living room into one massive mound beside the coffee table. Within minutes it became the main expedition camp of the flat, open to anyone regardless of age or height.
Outside, dusk settled early for a March evening; streetlamps reflected in the puddles like fireflies trapped in ice. When the boys parents called again, this time both voices on the line, it became obvious they wouldnt make it home that night.
Simon was the first to break the silence after the call.
It seems well be having a sleepover, he said. What do you think?
I looked at Elliot, who was beaming at his newly built fort, untroubled and excited, like an explorer on the brink of a big adventure.
Then lets declare a flatcamp! Simon announced with ceremony. Whos in charge of the menu?
The three of us cooked together, and it turned out to be surprisingly fun for us grownups too. Elliot peeled a potato, managing to shape one almost square; Simon coordinated the chopping of salad veg; I set the table with disposable plastic platesafter all, a camp needs a special atmosphere.
Rain drummed louder on the windowsill as we chatted about favourite childhood films (each of us from a different era), shared school anecdotes (Elliot recounted a story about his maths teacher and a plastic lizard), and laughed easily, as if we were no longer strangers. The scent of simmering vegetables and the soft glow of the kitchen lamp made the room feel cosy.
In the living room an improvised tent city rose: a few sheets draped over the back of the sofa, creating a little fortress with its own rulesstories whispered, forest spirits (the plush hippo took the role), and a nolightsafterlightsout decree. The clock ticked well past any reasonable bedtime, yet no one felt the need to remind Elliot of a schedule.
The makeshift camp held up remarkably; the sheets stayed put and the cushions served as both walls and beds. Elliot, now in a toolarge pair of my old pyjamas, settled inside the fort with the plush hippo and his dinosaurladen backpack.
I brought a mug of warm milk and a plate of biscuits.
Heres your night rations for the expedition, I declared, trying to sound serious.
Simon, for some inexplicable reason, tied a kitchen towel around his head like a headband.
In our camp we have a special rule: after lights out, only whispers! he whispered, winking at Elliot, who nodded and pretended to be busy constructing another tunnel of cushions.
The evening stretched longer than we usually allow ourselves. We read silly fairy tales about a clumsy bear (renaming the characters after our neighbours), debated what wed pack for a real hike, and Simon reminisced about his first overnight stay at a friends househow hed been terrified of the unfamiliar wallpaper but spent the next week dreaming of building a fort of chairs at home. I spoke of family trips to the countryside and the time I lost a slipper in a snowdrift right outside the front gate.
Elliot listened attentively, occasionally smiling or asking why adults love to talk about the past, why everyone has their own spooky stories. He spoke of school and classmates more calmly than he does during the day; no one tugged at his sleeve, no one interrupted. At one point he confessed,
I thought it would be boring but it feels like a celebration.
I laughed. See? The main thing is good company.
Gradually the conversation faded. Outside, the street was almost in darkness, only occasional cars flashing brief ribbons of light through the curtains. On the kitchen table sat a halfdrunk cup of tea and a slice of crusty breadno one was in a hurry to clear the remnants. A gentle weariness settled over the flat, as if wed lived a day just a little longer than usual.
I tucked Elliot into his cushion tent, draped a soft yellowstriped blanketone my mother had given Simon when he was a childover him. He settled comfortably. At his request I read one more story, about a town where paper boats glide across spring puddles at night. After the tale we sat in quiet.
Are you scared without Mum? I asked.
No its fun just a bit odd.
Tomorrow everything will be back to normal but if you ever want to stay again, youre always welcome.
He nodded sleepily; his eyes closed almost immediately.
When he finally drifted off, breathing evenly and even smiling in his sleep, I slipped into the kitchen where Simon was still at the table, phone in hand. A message from Sophie blinked on the screen: Weve finally made it home, all good. Well be up early tomorrow.
Its funny how the evening turned out, I said, lowering myself onto the stool beside him.
He shrugged. Who knows? It feels cozier than any of our usual family nights lately.
We exchanged a silent look, both understanding that this was a rare moment of genuine connectionnot only with the neighbours child but with each other.
The radiators heat warmed the kitchen, the rain continued its steady patter, and Elliots soft breathing drifted from the living room through the slightly ajar door. Suddenly Simon suggested,
Maybe we should do these camps more often? Not just for kids
I laughed. Adults need a break from the schedule too.
We agreed to try it at least once a monthmaybe just for the sake of a shared dinner or a board game.
Morning arrived bright and cheerful; a beam of sunlight sliced through the heavy curtains onto the floor by the radiator. In the hallway the air smelled freshsomeone had flung the window open wide to air out the flat after the nights adventure.
Elliot woke a little before us, slipped out of his cushion fort, and spent a long moment staring at the fridge magnets before helping me set the breakfast table: toast with cheese and a spoonful of canned apple purée. He seemed pleased with the simple camp menu.
Soon the parents arrived. Sophie looked tired but grateful; Elliots dad bombarded his son with questions about the nights exploits, and the boy proudly recounted the fort of cushions. Simon gave a thorough rundown of everything that happenedwhere we slept, what we ate, which films we watched.
Before they left, Elliot asked shyly,
Can I come back? Not just when Mums busy just because?
I laughed, Of course! We now have a flatcamp every Saturday.
The parents liked the idea straight away and even promised to bring a memorytraining board game next timesomething that might be useful for all generations.
When the neighbours door shut and the flat returned to its usual spaciousness, Simon turned to me.
What about inviting someone else next time?
I shrugged. Well see The point is, weve got our little secret against dull weekends.
Both of us felt a little younger, as if wed truly performed a small miracle in ordinary reality.
