The only proof that Craig wore tights.
As the clock hit midnight and hair metal beat its way out of the speakers, Craig turned 27.
But he is not an 80s rock god, so by 1 am he was sleeping heavily, still clad in a black beater and leopard print leggings. His wig a straggly animal on a chair upstairs.
This morning he woke, curled into my side and groaned "Twenty Seven. That's almost Thirty".
And so, I made him pancakes.
When I met Craig he was 17. He's now 27. I am ever so lucky.