Paul Dalgarno on fatherhood

THERE'S a party going on in the garden next to mine. From the window of my top-floor flat, I can spy at will.

It's 7.30 on Sunday evening. The party actually started yesterday afternoon, but it wasn't this busy. It's been a case of ebbs and flows, swings and roundabouts. I can only assume drugs were involved on the night shift. Nobody's company merits such sustained joy with a clear head.

Ten males in various states of steaming are standing in a circle on the grass, playing a keepie-up game with a gold-coloured football. At a guess, I'd put them all at 28 to 31 years old. Two are visibly balding; two more have begun balding but are probably unaware. From my vantage point it's obvious. There are women too, but for the moment I can't see any of them, apart from one, who has just taken a photo of the guys playing football. She looks nice. There's a big red rug with some pillows and empty cans of Strongbow.

Only two of the men, with berets, look like they might be students. What do the rest do? Maybe they just party. Maybe they're bankers.

The only guy wearing anything formal - a dark waistcoat and trousers, a white shirt, a claret tie - has just fallen over a yellow watering can into the wooden border of the garden's vegetable patch. He stands and takes a swig from a bottle of Morgan's Spiced. He is my hero.

The music is offensively loud but not offensive per se. Not all of it. I like when they play Marvin Gaye, although I'd rather they didn't sing along. The Clash. That's okay. Blur. Very now. Songs from Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown. Not cool, but not abrasive. His worst film by a country mile.

The paper plates littering the grass have swipes of ketchup from this afternoon's barbecue. I miss the barbie, not only because the tribe quietened down while they were eating, but because I like the smell of meat sizzling on open coals. It's probably a strange thing for a vegetarian to say. Maybe not. I love beef crisps. So what?

A girl in a polka-dot puff dress and white sandals has been on her phone for some time. She's looking at a tree and smoking a cigarette while she talks and listens.

The keepie-up game has ended. The men chase each other erratically for a while and then start throwing shapes, busting moves. Just the guys. It's always sad to see guys dancing together when they're drunk. Heterosexual guys, I mean. If they're gay I can see the point; but if they're just wankered it can be a little awkward. For the spectator, I mean, the casual spy.

I have to put my son to sleep now. It's one thing after another in the Dalgarno household.