Our next door neighbours just ordered a pizza and had it delivered to their hot tub.
I’m sure this is how Rome ended: Romulus Augustus, last of the emperors, munching on a slice of pepperoni in a flurry of bubbles while the barbarians rampaged the streets.
The delivery guy was perfunctory, delivering as he was his boxes to someone in a towel. There was a social awkwardness about it, carried out in the driveway that leads to their garden. He quickly got back in his car, crinkling with hot polyester, flicked on his lights, and drove away.
I don’t blame them for enjoying the summer. It was past 10 o’clock, and still above the street and lamplit trees, the sky was fading into warm purple. I love this end of July. The sky reminds me of so many camps gone by when we’d sit under clouds just like this, chatting about life and the universe in that way that pretty much everyone does, given a sultry breeze and a happy band of friends.
I think they’re complementing the pizza with a little Roman vino. That’s just a guess from the raised voices, and the soft chink above the noise of the bubbles.
Rome had had its day, hadn’t it? The world was moving on to the beginning of what we call medieval times, and the golden age of antiquity was coming to an abrupt end. I wonder whether Romulus had any idea of what the barbarians brought with them, of the sun going down on the eternal empire and of the end of all things. Probably not. As one person once observed, there was a day when you went out to play with your mates and it was the last ever time and none of you had any idea.
Perhaps that’s the way it should be. Perhaps my neighbours have it right, and are just enjoying the moment with their pals in their back garden. Who knows whether tomorrow it rains and next year things are different? It’s good to make memories, and balmy summer nights at the end of July seem to be just about perfect for that.
I just hope they don’t get pepperonis stuck in the plug hole.
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