Why parlour games still earn their place

A wet Sunday afternoon with a full teapot and six friends around the fire needs very little to become memorable. What it needs, in fact, is something to do with the hands and the wits at the same time. Parlour games do exactly that. They cost nothing, they include the shy eight-year-old and the confident eighty-year-old on equal terms, and they leave everyone with a story rather than a stiff neck from staring at a screen. The Victorians and Edwardians understood this better than we do, and their best inventions have never been improved upon.

Setting the scene: lamps, tea and a good chair

Before anyone arrives, do the small things that make a room feel like a parlour rather than a waiting area. Draw the curtains against the rain and light two or three lamps rather than the overhead bulb. Push the sofa and armchairs into a rough circle; games die in rows. Have ready a pot of strong tea, a jug of water, and something plain to eat — shortbread, a fruit cake, a plate of finger sandwiches if it is nearer teatime. Keep a kitchen timer, a pad of paper per team, a few pencils and a small bell on the side table. A bell is worth its weight in gold, because "that's the timer" ends an argument far sooner than any voice can.

Four to ten people is the sweet spot. Any fewer and the games sag; any more and turn-taking takes longer than the playing. Children of about eight and upwards can join everything described here, provided they are on a team with a patient adult.

Charades: the cornerstone of the parlour

If you play only one game, play this one. Split into two teams of equal nerve. Each team writes six titles on slips of paper — mix them up, using books, films, songs, television programmes, proverbs and the names of well-known places. Fold the slips into a bowl.

Agree the signals before you begin. Fingers held up show the number of words; a tug of the ear means "sounds like"; a cupped hand beckons the team to guess harder; pointing at a person or object means the word is present in the room. One player from a team draws a slip, reads it in secret, and mimes it to their own team against the clock — two minutes is generous, ninety seconds is sharper. Someone from the opposing team keeps the time and holds the slips. A correct guess wins the round; if the clock runs out, the turn passes to the other side. Rotate the mimer every turn so nobody hides at the back.

Twenty Questions and other thinking games

When legs are tired, sit down for Twenty Questions. One player thinks of something — an object, a person, a place — and the company has twenty yes-or-no questions to find it. The classic opening move is to establish the category first: animal, vegetable or mineral. A good questioner halves the field each time rather than nibbling at the edges. Keep a tally on paper; the twenty-first question loses the round and the thinker reveals the answer.

If the room is quick, try Animal, Vegetable, Mineral instead: one player silently chooses a category and the others must guess it within a minute, with only three questions to help. Or play The Minister's Cat, going round the circle with adjectives in alphabetical order — "The minister's cat is an agile cat, a beautiful cat, a cantankerous cat" — and anyone who repeats, hesitates or forgets is out.

Sardines: the lights-low favourite

This is hide-and-seek turned inside out, and it suits a rainy afternoon perfectly because the house is already dark and cosy. Choose one person to hide while everyone else counts to fifty with their eyes closed. When the seeker finds the hider, they do not announce it — they squeeze in alongside, as close as dignity allows, and stay silent. One by one the others are drawn in until the last person is hunting alone, following muffled giggles.

Set the boundaries out loud first: which rooms are in play, which are strictly out of bounds, and where the stairs must be taken slowly. Leave one lamp burning for safety, and put someone sensible in charge of the clock so the game does not run past the point of shrieking. Fifteen minutes is plenty.

A few more to keep in reserve

Consequences is the gentlest game in the drawer and needs only paper. Each player writes the first line of a story — a name, then a second name, where they met, what he said, what she said, what happened, and what the world said — folding the paper over before passing it on. Read the results aloud at the end, and expect the tea to be snorted.

Wink Murder keeps a larger group alert: one player is secretly the murderer, who eliminates others with a sly wink while a detective tries to identify them. Kim's Game suits a quiet moment — arrange twelve small objects on a tray, let everyone study it for a minute, then cover it and see who can list the most. Squeak, Piggy, Squeak has a blindfolded player in the middle guessing who squeaked, and has reduced grown adults to helpless laughter for two centuries.

Alternate a lively game with a seated one, refill the pot at the halfway mark, and finish with something short and forgiving so nobody leaves having lost badly. Turn the lamps up, hand round the last of the cake, and send everyone home with wet coats and a new favourite.