The first backyard barbecue of the summer. Eight people, crates of Carslberg Export on offer from Iceland, twenty sausages for a quid thirty-five, half an hour of hot sun that turned quickly into clouds and sudden, torrential rain, grey charcoal blocks giving off just not quite enough heat.
Inside the house someone had brought two plastic guitars with buttons on the handle, a microphone and a drum kit, stuck on top of a handtowel to stop it sliding away. "Who's singing next?" "I'm not doing bass guitar." "These drums are giving me shin splints." "Fuck's sake, Fleetwood Mac again?"
"He was shit last time he was here," hitting red then yellow then blue. "Aye, he's a music teacher though, isn't he? I think he uses it in class."
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