Friends. They’ll be there for you, according to the ever-present TV show. Maybe for Jennifer Aniston and Co. But the rest of us? If you’re of a certain age, the story is very different.
That group of mates we were always hanging out with – where are they now?
Back in school days, friendship was being part of a gang, hanging out, being with people you just clicked with. There were no limits, no expectation of the friendship ending. There were occasional breakups, but the bond was usually too tight for them to be permanent. And when separation was inevitable – like moving house because parents were on the move – there were pen friends, sharing messages by post. At first, these seemed like they should be for ever, too. But these didn’t last. Times move on so fast as a youngster.
I had a pen friend, and we shared letters for months. But gaps between letters lengthened until they stopped altogether. What was there to say? Interests had changed, there was a lack of shared experiences, we were meeting new people. Scrawling out a letter to someone you hadn’t seen for months took up valuable time and just seemed laborious. I don’t know who stopped writing first. I do remember my mum reminding me to write to him (I don’t even remember his name, though I still remember where he lived) but I’d just give her a shrug of indifference. And that was it. Over. Which helps prove the point. A pen friend could never be a bestie. The point of real friends is you see them all the time. You share each other’s lives. You really are there for each other. Proximity is vital.
Friendships don’t get much stronger than those built during further education. Years of working together, living close to each other, building relationships, especially where you’re on a campus. People of the same age, common interests; time spent hanging around in each other’s rooms, just sitting, talking about nothing. It’s so easy, effortless, spontaneous and natural.
And those early twenties, in education or not, these are likely to be times of limited finances, with shared accommodation or living close by because it’s where rents are cheap. If it’s not the proximity that builds the friendship, it’s shared hardships.
But it doesn’t last long. Nothing stays the same. Life gets in the way. There’s work and new commitments. You may keep the friends, but the bonds of similar experience and interests become diluted.
And there’s a greater risk to forever friendships. That of the group being broken up by pairing up – boyfriends and girlfriends. The focus changes, interests change. The group dynamic changes and forms clusters of twos. And if the partner is from outside the group, there comes a gradual separation. There are still boys’ nights and nights out with the girls, but these don’t just happen like they once did. They have to be planned in advance, becomes an occasion, requiring arrangements, getting dressed up, keeping an eye on the clock. They’re still fun, but they may need permission or at least acknowledgement from the partner. And what of joint nights out – the group with the plus ones. New friendships are formed by necessity – but the original loyalties are being watered down.
And there’s worse, of course. No group of friends can withstand the arrival of children. Now it’s mums together, pushing buggies to playgroup, dads chatting outside nurseries and schools on picking-up duty, or even sitting alone in the car, waiting with the engine running to keep warm. And what of that unbreakable bond of besties? It’s now a meet-up once a year, fixed by childcare arrangements. Conversation is easy, spent catching up on news, picking up conversations that have lapsed since the last meet-up. But gone is the unfettered small talk of old. Gradually awkward gaps appear, to be filled by soliloquies where people talk jobs, children, homes, pets, while the rest shift uncomfortably, check the time of the next train home. Then it’s setting diary dates to do it again next year.
Or there are smaller-scale meet-ups, squeezed in between family and children’s regular activities. The arrival is a melee of settling the kids, then talking about the journey, before the kids demand attention or food or a walk to the playground, and then it’s time to leave.
And if there are no children – maybe they’re doing their own thing or grandparents have stepped in – the meet up is over a meal. Talk is again dominated by journeys and families, along with holidays and work, and with the addition of health and ailments, before you hug goodbye. It’s been pleasant and enjoyable and you feel you’re still there for each other, even if life has got in the way of the unfettered friendship you once enjoyed.
All this came flooding back to me as I opened my address book (yes, I keep a paper one as well as the lists stored online) to write my Christmas cards. I always try to pick cards that I think will suit individuals, some from special packs, some that are sold as singles. And I couldn’t help but realise I had not only more cards than I needed, but I also had some unused ones from last year. The address book pages are full, but many of the details are redundant, with lines through them. This may be because some addresses have changed and been updated, others are because we have somehow lost contact. Some – depressingly but inevitably, I suppose, as you grow older – are because the people have died.
As this year’s cards sent to me clatter through the letterbox and on to the doormat, I’m noticing how the envelopes have changed. Once they were thick, stuffed with additional sheets of paper – handwritten accounts of the past year and embellished with favourite memories. Ironic, really, that what were my best mates had become pen friends. Then those hand-written messages changed to single word-processed A4 sheets detailing the past year, dominated by lengthy accounts of their children’s ups and downs. And more recently, there’s been a return to handwritten messages, but short now and hastily scribbled. ‘Sorry we didn’t meet. We must do it next year.’ Or worse – and heartbreakingly – news that the best friend has passed away in the summer, invariably after a short illness, leaving me with the dilemma of whether to still send the card I’ve already written and address it to the bereaved partner who wasn’t my best friend, or send a bereavement card instead, albeit several months too late.
And the realisation sinks in – far from being a friend who was always there, in their final hours, I’d been oblivious.
It’s what makes Christmas both a time of joy when it’s shared, but also a time of sadness and reflection. And a reminder – don’t take those friends for granted. They may not be there for you after all. So enjoy your time with them while you can.
