The Value of Friendship

A few weeks ago I attended a friend’s birthday party. I went, armed with a bottle of Champagne as a gift for Sporty Friend (and a bottle of Hooch to remind her of our student days), a bottle of Prosecco, a bottle of Gordons, a bottle of tonic and a lime. You can probably imagine by the description of my picnic hamper, what kind of party it was. It was a Ladies only affair and it took on the form of the last night at Pony Club Camp. I saw girls that I had not seen for the best part of 20 years. It was amazing because we picked up where we had left off. For a few hours we were no longer Mothers, Wives, or Divorcees; we were teenagers again. Laughing like we did back in the day, when Medical Friend was busy French plaiting my hair in our Religious Education class. Ignored by our class Teacher, it was going swimmingly until the Headmaster entered the classroom; and Medical Friend had to slide gracefully back into her seat beside me under his steely glare. I swear that some of the half finished conversations that began in 6^th Form were completed that sunny Saturday afternoon. It made me realise that the camaraderie we shared as teenagers had not died and never ever will. It has brought us together again as friends, leading to new conversations on Facetube and promises that we must not let it be so long before we meet again. Especially as we all live within an hour of each other. Have you noticed that we make more effort to keep in touch with people when they live far away? And we merrily neglect the friends who live 8 miles away as we are always so busy. At this point I will just confess that I still haven’t been for my 2014 Christmas drink with my brother, whose house is a mile from mine.

When I was 13 years old, a group of us at school were training for a 10 kilometre run.

The games Teacher who was coaching us, asked who had managed to get out for a run after school. When we all said that we had been too busy, he then replied “If I had offered to pay you £10 for each run, how many would you have managed to do?” We all agreed that we would have gone running every night, leaving Mr Games Teacher to inform us that weren’t too busy, just idle and money hungry.

How right he was. If money was on offer in exchange for friend visiting, how much more effort would we make?

I now value my friends and family far more than I did when I was younger. Perhaps it’s because I live in the Country, where people would actually die if they did not ask or indeed accept, the help and support from friends. Not just the friends that you meet for coffee or the Mummy-Friends who you chat to at the school gates. It’s also those friends who you don’t see all that often, but know that if you needed them, you would just have to pick up the phone and they would be screeching into your drive and sprinting towards your house half an hour later.

Around the same time as I attended this birthday-and-mother-of-all-catch-ups-party, I got a phone call from an old friend who I hadn’t seen in years. It was very early in the morning when Posh Friend called. So early in fact, that I only answered my phone as I thought someone needed help. I was out on my horse at the time and I had to keep asking Posh Friend to “hang on a minute” so that I could swop hands and shorten my reins.

“How the hell are you?” I asked.

 “I’ve had an absolutely shitty week” was the reply “and I’m handing in my notice this morning.”

I was shocked. Posh Friend had always been so methodical and organised that this seemed totally out of character. I also knew that Posh Friend lived in a house owned by their employer, so I asked if they were really sure that this was the right thing to do. Did they have a job to go to? Where would they live?

Posh Friend was hesitant and admitted that there was no job on standby and that they would have to immediately find somewhere else to live.

Would it not be better to stick it out, I asked, just until they had another job to go to?

Posh Friend admitted that it was huge worry that they had no job to walk in to, but the strain of the position was so great that they felt a great weight had been lifted from their shoulders simply by deciding it was time to leave.

Posh Friend then asked what I would do in the situation, what advice could I give them?

“Look Dave,” I said “Just be yourself. But don’t let Samantha wear that bloody dress with the triangles on it, because she looks like something out of a Littlewoods catalogue.”

It just goes to show that even old friends don’t always take your advice.

Who Killed Mrs White?

Mrs White is to be killed off from the game of Cluedo.

Her replacement is Dr Orchid, the adopted daughter of victim Dr Black. Dr Orchid is a biologist with a degree in plant toxicology and was privately educated in Switzerland until her expulsion after a near-fatal poisoning, involving daffodils. She was then home educated by none other than Mrs White, the Housekeeper of the Tudor Mansion. Are you still with me at this point?

I’m a bit sad about this as I believe that I would get on rather well with Mrs White. She seems the type to smoke cigars, roll-ups and a pipe all at the same time. I bet she also likes the occasional can of Mackeson Stout and sometimes sneaks a swig of cooking sherry from the bottle when she is alone in the kitchen. I can’t see me getting on with Dr Orchid at all. Firstly she makes me feel stupid because I don’t know anything about plants or toxicology and is clearly much more intelligent than me. Secondly she’s bound to be younger, slimmer, taller and prettier than me and she knows it. I bet she has a sports car, Jimmy Choo shoes and only shops at Harvey Nicks. No, I would much rather sit and chill (Swadge) with Mrs White, as after you’d finished your can of Mackeson she would serve up Cheddar cheese, pickled onions and pineapple chunks on cocktail sticks. If you were to ever drop in unannounced, she would immediately put the kettle on and produce an enormous teapot with a home knitted tea cosy. She would use cups and saucers on a Sunday afternoon and her salmon sandwiches would be cut into triangles and have the crusts cut off. She would use one of those lovely 3 tiered cake stands that was her Grandmother’s; and she would make more sandwiches when it became empty. She would make homemade wine from peapods and parsnip tops, jam from blackberries and chutney from green tomatoes. She would have porridge for breakfast every morning and fish for dinner every Friday. She would also remove newspapers from the bin so that she could do the crossword.

Her vacuum of choice would be a Kirby and she would iron all items of clothing including her bed socks, which were a gift from her employer. On her day off she would go to town on the bus and make sure no-one was watching as she ducked into the Bookies. She would be on first name terms with the cashier but would refuse to have an account.

She would wear tweed and those shoes that ladies only acquire through the reading of wills. Those shoes with the penny loafer effect at the toe and an inch and a half sturdy heel at the rear. She would wear thick scratchy woollen tights and never be seen in slacks. I thought at first she would also have a dog; and I couldn’t decide if she would have an overweight Labrador or an ancient terrier with glazed eyes that had its own chair in her parlour, but actually I think Mrs White wouldn’t have either. She wouldn’t like the hairs on her furniture, you see. Because Mrs White would be immaculate at all times, even after a can of Stout. She would be stern, with a sour look on her face that says “do not cross me” to mask the fact that she is a kind person who thrives on routine. She would run the Cluedo Mansion with the piece of lead piping and even though there are 324 possibilities, she knows damn fine who killed Dr Black in the Hall with the candlestick. But she says nothing, as it isn’t her place, you see.

Once you really got to know her, the teacups on a Sunday afternoon would be full of brandy and she would pass on her betting tips to you. Sometimes she might even give you a tenner to buy yourself something nice, as Saucy Lad had won the 3.20 at Kempton and she had backed him at 25 to 1.

But I’ve just realised two things. For a start I’ve just described my Granny; and also, that Cluedo is just a bloody game.