As the clock hit midnight and hair metal beat its way out of the speakers, Craig turned 27.
But he is not an 80s rock god, so by 1 am he was sleeping heavily, still clad in a black beater and leopard print leggings. His wig a straggly animal on a chair upstairs.
This morning he woke, curled into my side and groaned “Twenty Seven. That’s almost Thirty”.
And so, I made him pancakes.
When I met Craig he was 17. He’s now 27. I am ever so lucky.