The youngest one is turning 24. His presents consist largely of domestic appliances - a microwave, a kettle, a toaster - because he is scheduled to move out soon. My wife is also trying to organise a birthday lunch for him, but the timings are difficult: the oldest one lives on the other side of London; the middle one has an appointment to view a flat, because he is also poised to move out.
After years of having our adult children underfoot, my wife and I are about to find ourselves alone. Neither of us really knows what this will be like, although we've had a few alarming rehearsals.
"Here you go," my wife says, walking out to my office shed and presenting me with a shiny green box, which I examine from all sides.
"A new food waste disposal bin," I say. "Is it my birthday already?" This is meant ironically, but it doesn't sound that ironic when I say it.
"They just brought it round," my wife says.
"The council brought it round?" I say.
"Yes, because I ordered it," she says, reminding me that the locking handle on our old bin had cracked, allowing the local foxes to use it as a sort of click-and-collect service. There is a pause while I search for a response that doesn't make me sound old.
After lunch I fall asleep to the sound of my grown sons arguing about the rules of a board game
"Do you think it's slightly bigger than our old bin?" I say. This, in hindsight, was not the thing I was looking for at all.
"Anyway, I'm off to the garden centre," my wife says.
"Again?" I say. "You went yesterday."
"This is a different garden centre," she says.
"It's a slippery slope."
"What's a slippery slope?" she says.
"Going to the garden centre every day. Eventually you'll think, 'I might just have a slice of cake while I'm here.'"
"I'm not listening to this," she says.
"And then pretty soon you're buying all your clothes there," I say.
"Did you want anything?" she says.
"Send me pictures of the shoes," I say.
A date is finally fixed for a late lunch, the day after the day after the youngest one's birthday. The oldest one arrives at 2.30pm. The youngest is made to admire his presents all over again. The middle one has bought him what looks like a computer game, but when the box is opened it contains counters, plastic figurines and reams of printed instructions.
"Is that a board game?" I say.
"Quite a rare and expensive board game," says the middle one.
"Basically, conquering medieval Europe," the oldest one says.
"Can you marry a horse in this game?" says the youngest one, reading aloud from the instructions. "Yes you can!"
"Oh my God," I say to my wife. "Are they nerds?"
"I'm sorry," she says.
After lunch I fall asleep in the hammock to the sound of my three grown sons arguing about the rules of the board game through the open kitchen door. When I wake my wife is standing over me.
"So I figure we need to leave here at about 6.20pm," she says.
"Sounds good," I say. I think: to go where?
After some moments of concentration I remember we have theatre tickets, bought months ago. I go upstairs to change. When I come back down my wife is searching for our tickets on her phone. The board game is well under way; alliances are being forged at a halting pace.
"What happens if she marries someone from my house?" says the middle one.
"She's not from your house," the oldest one says.
"I don't think you can marry off a child on your turn," says the youngest.
"She's Frankish," the middle one says.
"That's not a house, it's a culture," the oldest replies.
"Fine, so try and marry her then," the middle one says.
"I think you need a special card for that," says the youngest.
This may not be the last time I see all three of them sat at our kitchen table bickering over a game, but it might be one of the last times. Even when they meet, they won't necessarily meet here. I stand in the doorway for a moment, listening.
"You just do marriages at a set time in this game," says the oldest, pulling three beers from the fridge.
"In the dynasty phase," says the youngest.
"This is the dynasty phase," says the middle one.
"I don't think you're allowed to," says the youngest.
"It literally says!" shouts the middle one. My wife comes up behind me.
"I found the tickets," she says. "Are you coming?"
"Yeah," I say. "Let's get out of here."