Replacement Biscuits


She whisked in and whisked out but whilst she was here it was marvellous. Although I didn’t consume a single biscuit during her far too brief visit, having my best friend to stay at the weekend was so lovely, but she has left, returned to far far away deepest darkest North Devon and in her wake is a gloomy sadness.

Last week I met with an artist, Sarah Nicolls, for her current project we spoke of the trials and tribulations of motherhood. Once she discovered that I write a blog, and that I feel I’ve lost a slight sense of my identity since I’ve become a Mummy, she challenged me to write the occasional blog post that was not about the boys. So this isn’t, it’s about how much I fucking miss my bestie most funny friend. At 10pm on Friday I received a text, “open up” it read. I jumped from my sofa spot and flung open the front door. I waited, I got cold, I waited some more, I folded my arms over my unprotected lady assets to keep the frozen boob pain at bay, then I pushed the door too and returned to my spot. I knew she’d be getting out of her car, grabbing 109 bags and scooping up all manner of stuff and things to clutter my dinky house up with. Finally I heard a jangle, “Hallooooo?” YES! She’s here! There she was beaming smile, crazy hair, carrying 3 bags, 1 pillow, a sleeping bag and clutching half a bottle of cold red wine in her fist. We hugged twice before I shut the door or she put down any of her stuff. I hadn’t really allowed myself to believe she was coming until that point. We nattered and chortled and got ready for bed, and we planned the next days’ events, we both like a plan. Shopping and lunch in a real town were her desires, so the next morning we headed out in the pouring, freezing rain to the bus stop, we made it as far as the car park next to my house before we decided it was too damn grim to walk anywhere. Car and expensive sheltered multistorey car park it is, sod it! We shopped, like I can with no other, being silly and sensible all at once, flirting with styles and lesbians in H&M, talking about everything far too loudly and letting time rush by. Soon we were both pooped, over-shopped and ready to go home to cosiness. We spent the afternoon at home together, the 5 of us, playing and doing and knitting and eating. When evening hit and adult occupations could resume we opened wine, crisps and a pack of cards. The night ended long after midnight with me, Jon and Liz slumped on the sofa with Kerplunk sticks sticking out of our hair, or in Jon’s case beard. We had behaved like youths, fairly sensible ones but youths nonetheless.

The following morning was a slow one, as slow as we could manage, our only objective consisting of ensuring we consumed bacon. Now, not actually writing about the boys makes it sound like they were neglected, but they were not. Watching my best friend with them was beautiful and the love they have for each other is strong. And this thought brings me to the sadness; that if she has children (and I pray she fulfills that personal dream, she’s wanted to be a Mummy for as long as I’ve wanted to be a famous drummer) I won’t have the same relationship with them. Finding money, time and sizeable accommodation to hold us all seems impossible, I won’t just slot in with her and her family, be there to help, hold, tidy, or support her, I shall have my own family to consider. The idea of her reaching that point in her life without me being just round the corner makes me feel sick. But life may perhaps lead to that. Once she left on Sunday I went quiet, any attempt to speak meant I nearly cried. Eventually it burst out, like it does. When she sent me a message to let me know she’d arrived home safely attached to it was a picture of her sobbing. I’m so lucky to be surrounded by an amazing circle of friends, but it’s incomplete. It would simply be so much more fun if we saw each other more than 3 times a year. Still, on a positive note, now she’s gone the replacement of biscuits for wine, crisps and chocolate has been reversed and Jon and I can return to our nightly biscuit ritual. Silly really, she loves a bourbon.


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