Saturday, early April, the usual lazy rhythm settled over our flat in Camden. Id been tinkering with the new coffee beans since dawn, measuring out the perfect grind on the kitchen counter. Emma lounged on the sofa, thumbing through a pile of magazines and jotting down a shopping list. She planned to pop to the Tesco after lunch, but the drizzle had turned the streets into a slick of slush. Outside, wet snow was melting slowly, leaving puddles dotted with patches of dirty ice. By the entrance a small archipelago of wellworn rubber boots and house slippers waited.
I glanced up from my mug.
Fancy a snack? I asked. Ive found a recipe for cottagecheese fritters that doesnt need any semolina.
Emma smiled. Our plans were simple: breakfast together, then each of us on our own business. I was about to answer when a sharp knock sounded down the hallway.
Standing there was our neighbour, Sarah, from the flat opposite. She looked a little more flustered than usual, one arm cradling a boy of about eight or ninesomeone not quite a stranger, but not exactly a family friend either.
Sorry to intrude, she said, but Ive got a work emergency. My husbands stuck somewhere between the M25 and the stratosphere. Could you look after Oliver for a couple of hours? Hes quiet heres his bag.
She handed me a small backpack with a plastic dinosaur peeking out.
Dont worry about feeding him muchhe just had breakfast. He does love apples.
I exchanged a look with Emma; she shrugged. Who else would say yes so quickly? Neighbours sometimes need a hand. We nodded at Sarah.
Of course, he can stay. No worries.
Oliver stepped over the threshold, eyes darting up and down, curious and wary. His boots left fresh damp prints on the mat, adding to the growing trail. Sarah quickly briefed us: parents phones always on hand, call them or me if anything comes up, no allergies, he loves animal cartoons. She kissed the boy on the crown and vanished through the door.
Oliver shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook by the radiator, next to our own coats. The flat seemed a shade darker than his own, the heavy curtains in the living room dimming the light, but it smelled pleasantfresh coffee mingling with warm radiator air.
So, Oliver, I said, you want to watch a cartoon or play something?
He thought for a moment.
Maybe something about dinosaurs? Or we could build something
The first halfhour passed quietly. I put on DinoPark for him and slipped away to read the news on my phone. Emma kept flipping through magazines, eyes occasionally flicking to our new guest, who had settled on the carpet in front of the TV with his backpack dangling. Even after three backtoback adverts, the feeling that he was only a temporary visitor lingered.
By oneoclock the adult agenda began to melt faster than the March snow on the radiators. Sarah texted: Sorry! Weve been stuck in traffic for an hour. Well try to be home by evening. Then Olivers dad called, his voice sounding apologetic.
Hey, thanks a lot! Well be there sooneverything okay over there?
Emma reassured him.
Yes, all fine! No worries!
She hung up and looked at me.
It looks like well have to change lunch plans
I threw my hands up.
Well, itll be an adventure in improvisation!
Olivers natural spontaneity smoothed over the first awkwardness. He showed off his threepiece dinosaur figurine collection and asked if he could help in the kitchen.
I fetched some eggs for an omelette, and Oliver cracked the shells against the bowls rimthough a few missed the bowl entirely. The kitchen filled with the scent of buttered toast; the boy mixed the batter with a wooden spoon, the mixture turning as thick as cement.
While we debated which film suited an eightyearoldfrom The Lion King to classic British comediesOliver quietly piled all the cushions from the sofa into a single mountain beside the coffee table. Within minutes it became the main expedition camp of the flat, open to anyone regardless of age or height.
Outside, early evening settled in earlier than usual for late March; street lanterns reflected in the puddles like fireflies among the icy patches by the stairwell.
Later, when both of Olivers parents called around dinner time, it became clear they werent getting home that night.
I was the first to break the silence.
It seems well be having a sleepover, I said.
Emma glanced at Oliver, who beamed at his newly built fort, excitement clear in his eyes.
Then lets declare a flat camp! I announced with a grin. Whos in charge of the menu?
We cooked together, and it turned out surprisingly fun for three grownups accustomed to routine. Oliver peeled a potato, managing to make one piece almost square; I chopped vegetables for a salad, while Emma set the table with disposable platesafter all, a camp needs its own atmosphere.
Rain drummed louder on the windowsill as we talked about favourite childhood films (each of us from a different era), shared school anecdotesOliver recounted a maths teacher who once brought a plastic lizard to class. Laughter came easily, as if we were no longer strangers. The scent of simmering veggies and the soft glow of the kitchen lamp made the room feel cozy.
We pitched an improvised tent city in the living room, draping sheets over the back of the sofa. New camp rules emerged: stories whispered, forest spirits hidden, their role taken by a plush hippo. When the clock slipped past the usual bedtime, nobody even thought to remind Oliver of a bedtime schedule.
The tent held up surprisingly well; sheets stayed in place, cushions doubled as walls and bedding. Oliver, now in a toolarge pair of adult pyjamas, settled inside the camp with the plush hippo and his dinosaurladen backpack.
I brought a mug of warm milk and a plate of biscuits.
Heres your nighttime ration for the expedition, I declared solemnly.
For some reason I tied a kitchen towel around my head like a bandana.
In our camp, after lights out, we speak only in whispers! I winked at Oliver, who nodded and pretended to be busy constructing another pillow tunnel.
The evening stretched longer than most adults would allow. We read funny bedtime stories about a clumsy bear, swapping the characters names for our neighbours, and talked about what wed pack for a real hike. I recalled my first nightover at a friends househow the unfamiliar wallpaper spooked me, yet I spent the next week dreaming of building a fort of chairs at home. Emma spoke of family trips to the country and the time she lost a slipper in a snowdrift right outside the front gate.
Oliver listened intently, occasionally smiling or asking why adults love to reminisce about the past, why everyone has their own scary stories. He spoke calmly about school and classmates, more relaxed than he was during the day; no one tugged at his sleeve or interrupted him. At one point he confessed,
I thought it would be boring but it feels like a celebration.
Emma laughed.
Thats the pointgood company makes all the difference.
Gradually the conversation faded. Outside, the street slipped into darkness, only the occasional car casting a thin line of light through the curtains. On the kitchen counter a halfdrunk cup of tea and a slice of crusty bread remained untouched; no one rushed to clear the dinner remnants. A pleasant, light fatigue settled over the flat, as if wed lived a day a little longer than usual.
I tucked Oliver into his pillowfort, pulling a soft yellowstriped blanket over hima favourite of mine since childhood. He curled up contentedly. At his request I read him another story, about a town where paper boats drifted across puddles at night. After the tale we sat in comfortable silence.
Are you scared without your 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.
Oliver nodded sleepily; his eyes closed almost instantly.
When he finally slept, breathing evenly, I drifted to the kitchen where Sarahs message pinged on my phone: shed finally made it home, all safe, and would be up early tomorrow.
Never expected an evening like this, I murmured.
Emma slipped onto the stool beside me.
Neither did I but the unexpected turned out cozier than any family night weve had lately.
We looked at each other in quiet understanding; this had been a rare moment of connectionnot just with the neighbours child, but with each other.
The radiators heat filled the kitchen, the rain continued its steady patter, and Olivers soft breathing drifted from the living room through the ajar door. I suddenly suggested,
What if we did these camps more often? Not just for kids
Emma smiled.
Adults need an unplanned weekend too.
We agreed to try it at least once a monthwhether for a shared dinner or a board game.
Morning arrived bright and cheerful; sunlight slashed through the heavy curtains onto the floor beside the radiator. The hallway smelled of fresh airsomeone had thrown open the windows wide to air out the flat after the nights festivities.
Oliver woke a little before us, slipped out of his makeshift bunker, and examined the magnet collection on the fridge. He then helped Emma set the breakfast table: toast with cheese and a jar of apple puree. He seemed pleased with the simple camp menu.
Soon Sarah and her husband arrived, tired but grateful. Olivers dad immediately bombarded his son with questions about the nights adventures; the boy proudly described the pillow fort. I gave them the full rundownwhere we slept, what we ate, which films we watched.
Before they left, Oliver asked,
Can I come again? Not just when mums busy just because?
I laughed.
Of course! We now have a flat camp every Saturday.
His parents welcomed the idea without hesitation, even promising to bring a memoryboosting board game next timesomething useful for all generations.
When the neighbours door shut and the flat fell silent again, I turned to Emma.
Think we should invite someone else next time?
She shrugged.
Well see The important thing is weve got our little secret against boring weekends.
Both of us felt a little younger, as if wed truly performed a small miracle in everyday life.
Lesson learned: a spontaneous shift in plans can turn an ordinary day into a memorable adventure, reminding us that community and flexibility are the best ingredients for a fulfilling life.
