Parents! It’s New Year’s Eve!父母们！跨年夜到了！

伊娃·怀斯曼　冯环

Heres an idea： a New Years Eve camp for the children of parents who still love a party. Not just drinks， a dinner， but a party party， you know， a thing that starts gently with a plastic glass and chatter about school catchments1 and then joyfully descends.

A New Years Eve camp that starts today， lunchtime， where children collect by the campfire in full excitement and coats， and their parents， vibrating with guilt， cover them with weighted kisses before dashing off to shave their legs and put a record on. The camp could be in Elstree. Somewhere like Elstree. Somewhere suitably green and anonymous， but accessible by motorway. The children would have structured play2 for the first two hours， while parents made their ways home， relaxing a little more at every petrol station. And theyd get home， rushing now， steaming up the bathroom， a spritz of something citric maybe， the door to the kids room slightly ajar， its contents of Stickle Bricks and puddled tights like a conquered landscape. The music is important， the kitchen Sonos pumping out songs that remind them how to be the people they were when they met， with ambition and mopeds3 and all their hair. At some point they close the kids room door.

At camp， the muddied children would sit in a circle and drink hot chocolate， while the parents arrive at their friends house a little too early， too excited， wielding a bottle like a passport. In the hall theyd Facetime the children， who are anxious to get back to their midnight feast， and when they hang up the parents kiss with a passion that at first feels performative， but eases into something real.

Then the party would start to wobble slightly， theyre on a boat thats leaving shore. The kitchen would become a ballroom， someones DJing from their phone， at one point a podcast about the ethics of euthanasia comes on and everyone keeps dancing. A cat sleeps furiously on the pile of coats， a marriage breaks down in the garden， 1，000 intimacies are forged in the smoking area. At camp， the midnight feast would be held in the bunks， as the new year dawns， and sleep would come slowly， under slightly itchy blankets.

The real beauty of the camp， however， would not be in the New Years Eve activities， but the accommodation for up to four days following—climbing， firepits， swimming， song. Each hour following a parents party is crucial. Home at four， ordinarily they would be woken again at seven， and chucked face first into a pit of toast and cartoons. When， of course， at this age， halfway to death， a hangover needs at least three days to bed in， to carry its owner through the tepid shallows of fear and loneliness， through to the depths of agony beyond. The memories of spilling red wine on their hosts carpet， and brilliantly covering it with ground pepper. The inevitable suggestive dance with the person who by day is a clumsy letch4 but by fairy light5 suddenly seemed like the one that got away. Oh God the vomit， the vomit in the plant， and the argument about Uber， and the standing on the table with arms outstretched shouting： “Please Has Anybody Got Any Drugs Please.”

Lets say one day for just lying with their hands over their eyes like theyve seen too much， heaving themselves to standing only to accept a Deliveroo6. Lets say another day to gently phone around， researching the truth， rehydrating7 the relationship. Then two days—full days—to ease back into the reality of their identity， and all the responsibilities and repayments， both emotional and fiscal， owed. To slither8 back into the skin of a person that goes to bed at 10.30， that has a whole thing about9 bin collection times， that goes into her sons school to talk about stranger danger and the environmental impact of plastic bags.

At camp， the children would be protected from the raw reality of their parents as people， from seeing the awful fallout from cocktails made at dawn and shoes that need practice. Returning from Elstree， somewhere like Elstree， ruddy-cheeked and vital on 4 January， the children would smell nothing， see nothing， and theyd have learned how to make flapjacks， and their parents are alive， and thats all theyd need to know.

我有个主意：那些仍然热爱派对的父母，可以为孩子办一个跨年夜的露营活动。这里所说的派对，不仅仅是喝几杯、吃顿饭而已，而是真正的派对，明白吧，通常先由一塑料杯的饮品和关于学区划分的闲聊徐徐开启，然后就热热闹闹地渐入狂欢了。

跨年夜的露营活动就从今天午餐的时候开始。营地里，孩子们将身穿大衣，兴高采烈地围聚在篝火旁边，而他们的父母则会因心怀愧疚而颤抖，将一个个深深的吻兜头盖脸地给予他们，因为这些父母立马就要忙着刮腿毛、放唱片了。营地可以选在埃尔斯特里，或某处类似的地方，总之那地方须得青葱、僻静，但又是通了高速公路的。孩子们在刚开始的两个小时，将会做些玩有所得的游戏，于此期间父母便可乘机驱车回家了，一路上还可在各个加油站稍微放松一下。接着，到了家中，父母将立即变得匆忙起来——浴室里水汽腾腾，也许再喷点儿柠檬味儿的东西;孩子房间的门也微微开着，房内散落着斯蒂克尔牌积木和溅了泥点的紧身裤，整个一幅沦陷之地的景象。音乐是重点，厨房里的索诺斯牌音响正涌出一首首歌曲，让父母回忆起当年两人初见时的模样——胸怀壮志，身骑电动自行车，还有浓密的头发。然后到了某刻，父母将会关上孩子的房门。

营地那边，满身泥土的孩子围坐成一圈喝着热巧克力，而此时他们的父母已到了朋友家中——去得有点儿太早，人也有点儿过于兴奋，手中挥舞着酒瓶子，仿佛那是聚会的通行证。门厅里，父母会跟孩子视频聊天，但孩子却急着回去参加“午夜的盛宴”。在孩子挂断之际，父母还会热情地吻别，起初这热情觉得像是演出来的，但渐渐地也就变得真实可感了。

然后，参加派对的人会开始轻微地摇摆，仿佛是在一艘正离岸驶去的船上。厨房变成了舞厅，有人用手机混音打碟，虽然中间冒出了一个谈论安乐死道德问题的播客，但每个人却依旧在跳着舞。一只猫，气呼呼地睡在一堆大衣上面;一桩婚姻，在花园里破裂;一千段亲密关系，在吸烟区建立。而营地那边，“午夜的盛宴”就要在架子床上举行了。新年就要来临，躺在略微刺得让人发痒的毛毯下，睡意也将慢慢袭来。

然而，露营的真正妙处，却不在于跨年夜的活动，而在于它把随后长达四天的时间都安排上了——爬山、地灶野炊、游泳、唱歌。父母派对结束后的每一个小时都至关重要。凌晨四点到家后，父母像往常一样七点就会醒来，然后一头埋进吐司和卡通画册堆起的坑里。当然，在这个年龄，到了生命的中途，一场宿醉至少要三天的时间才能消缓，才能带那宿醉者蹚过由恐惧和孤独构成的温热浅滩，越过那痛苦的深渊。只见回忆一幕幕浮现：把红酒洒在了主人的地毯上，然后机灵地用胡椒粉盖住;与白天那个笨拙的挑逗者跳起了一支难免带有挑逗意味的舞，因为在夜晚的彩色小灯下那人竟突然看起来像是曾经离去的恋人;哦，上帝啊，还有呕吐物，在绿植里的呕吐物，以及关于优步的争论，并且自己还曾站在桌子上伸出双臂大喊：“喂，谁有‘药啊，喂。”

或许，第一天他们只能双手捂眼地躺着，仿佛用眼过度，只在收外卖时才会吃力地起身。第二天他们会柔声细语地打一圈电话，探一探实情，使朋友关系复归融洽。接下来的两天——两个整天——他们就会慢慢地回到为人父母的现实身份中，承担起所有的责任，偿还感情和金钱上的亏欠。他们將爬着钻回原先的那副皮囊里，之前的那个自己会在十点半就上床睡觉，会特别留心收垃圾的时间点，会去儿子的学校谈论陌生人的危险以及塑料袋对环境的影响。

而在营地里，孩子们不会受到父母本就有的放纵贪欢那一面的影响，也不会见到黎明时分调的鸡尾酒以及多穿才能适应的高跟鞋所招致的可怕副作用。1月4日，孩子们红光满面、生气勃勃地从埃尔斯特里或类似的某个地方回来后，将什么也闻不到，什么也看不到。那时，孩子们应已学会了做煎饼，他们的父母也都活力满满——他们需要知道的也就是这些了。

（译者为“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛获奖者;单位：中铁科研院）