Most years when I was growing up we had a big New Year's Eve Party. Those were martini years and we lived a good ways out, along a complicated set of sharp turns and narrow roads. Many of the guests sensibly spent the night, on cots in the attic, in the laundry room, on couches. One pair, who it turned out had just started dating and were not yet a bed-sharing couple at least by 1950s standards, were startled to be ordered into my parents' bed for the night. My mom thought they were just reluctant to make the hosts sleep elsewhere and she was in no mood for trivialities at 2 am.
Mom felt vindicated when they did later get married.
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