We didn't even unpack the car.
That's how hardcore we were.
We pulled up to the farmhouse late, our friend the Birthday Boy came out to greet us, we grabbed his gift and a bottle of whiskey and were swept inside.
A room full of friends, food, freedom and wine.
The next morning - after the lamb, the champers, the shooters, the laughs, after the speeches and glass breaking, the dancing, the laughing, the remember-when'ing and the ridiculous hugs - the next morning, after the coffee and the warmed-up roti's and the slow patching together of what happened, when and to whom, after we relit the fire and regrouped and rebooted, a couple of explanatory phone calls, surprisingly few (thank god) photos and some promises to Never Mention That Again - we walked back out to the car and drove home.
Those toothbrushes we packed, and night cream and undies and fresh pillowcases and alternative shoes and phone chargers - they spent the night in the car because we didn't need that shit.
It was like children were never even invented.