I’m offered a shot from a tray of twenty or so plastic thimbles, standing in a neat line like soldiers preparing for battle. Around me, I look at the stumbling casualties, giggling as they trip up steps and collapse on the grass. I generally refrain from drinking, not due to any sort of moral or health-conscious standing, I just don’t like the way alcohol makes me feel. I hate the sensation that seems to only hit in crowded bathrooms; the one that feels as if my brain is lagging half a second behind my eyes, making colours blur and the walls drag as I turn my head. This time, however, I’m promised that the turquoise liquid tastes like After Eights. I bring the cup to my lips and throw my head back, as if the shot came from a loaded gun. It does not taste like chocolate. 

“Alright everybody, gather round!” calls the Birthday Girl. She promises another game as the crowd assembles. Everybody is dressed in animal costumes as we compete in ‘species’ to win her coveted handmade trophies and more alcohol — I’m a unicorn. “This is a game of hide and seek. Three teams will hide these tennis balls around the garden, and after three minutes, the other three teams will seek them. The species that finds the most balls wins.” An excited murmur rumbles within the teams as we begin scheming about the best hiding spots. 

When I was in my early teenage years, people in their mid to late twenties seemed ancient and I would often stress over wasting what I thought was my fast-fading youth. I blame The X Factor for convincing me that anybody over the age of twenty-five was washed up with nothing but their ageing bones and withered dreams to cling to. Yet here we all were, ecstatic about a boozy game of hide and seek. Having turned twenty-four just last week, I have never felt so young and giddy. 

“There are a few rules: One, don’t hide your balls in the flower patch” An immature chuckle spreads within the group. “Two, you can’t hide them in the tents. And three, do not hide them in the bird box on the shed, there are baby blue tits in there.”

“Tits!”

It takes a minute for the howling laughter to simmer into a quiet sniggering. It erupts again when I call out about shags and blue-footed boobies.

Once we calm down, the hiding begins. I’m still amused — admittedly, after over fifteen years of birdwatching, I can’t say the word tit or booby with a straight face, and I hope I never do.

My team decides to hide our ball in the stones that line the garden patio, being sure to mark the mound with a red leaf. As we walk away, a fellow unicorn comes up to me and asks about my interest in birds. He listens attentively as I point out the house martins swirling above us and a wolf-whistling red kite soaring over the trees — I think he’s flirting with me. We briefly discuss my early career in writing, before the conversation returns to tits. A bumble bee and a frog join in as we laugh about it again. I notice my chance to consolidate our friendships and seize it.

“If you like that, wait ’til you hear about my personal favourite bird name, Coccothraustes coccothraustes!”