I walk out the door of my house and look around the neighborhood. Everything is quiet, it's a sunny day, one of those days when you don't even feel like going to work.

But as I look across the street, your house, I see a small stand set up with two pitchers of lemonade and several glasses with a sign that says: £1 for lemonade. Your two sons, twins, are putting the finishing touches on the sign, painting lemons around the letters. You're standing right in the driveway, tending your small garden but keeping an eye on the children.

I decide to approach you. Who doesn't fancy a glass of lemonade in this heat? Besides, it's a good excuse for you to come over and talk to me. Whenever we try to have a conversation, I end up babbling nonsense. I don't mean to say you make me nervous or anything, but—well, maybe you do make me a little nervous.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" I ask as I reach the twins and they look up at me.

"Mr. Styles! Would you like a glass of lemonade?" one of them asks, slightly raising one of the pitchers.

"We did it ourselves!" the other says, grinning from ear to ear.

"I'd love to, guys." I pull out my wallet while surreptitiously glancing at you, who watch the interaction while continuing to work on your plants. "Let's see... it looks like I don't have just one pound... would it be okay if I gave you a 50-pound bill?" The kids' jaws literally drop in surprise.

"50 pounds for a lemonade?! Done!" they say as they take the note from me and start pouring the lemonade into a glass.