L...

Oh L - you're still one of my dearest friends.  Twenty Two years later....

We met in the queue to register for my course.  Everyone's got a 'met in the queue' story from University.  L is my most notable one.  She didn't seem the chattiest of types.  Maybe it was my ghastly brown leather jacket from Wembley Market that put her off.  She has always been immaculately turned out to a degree well beyond her means - always.  Students are not known to have an in-depth appreciation for £300 shirts.  L did.  L does.



I knew where she was from rather well.  There was at least a connection there.  She didn't seem particularly happy.  She seemed, perhaps, a little sceptical of me. Perhaps it was the leather jacket.   She was going back home that weekend rather than the plethora of balls and parties that were being laid on to extract ££s from Freshers.  I'd see her again at the first lecture.

She, of course, quickly became a major feature of my University Life and my life in general.  In some respects it was a deeply imperfect match.  She liked designer clothes.  I liked baggy jumpers and yellow t-shirts.  She liked Lloyd Cole.  I liked musical theatre.  She liked that lecturer that gave me the Saussure assignment.  I hated him.

 

She was and is incredibly loyal.  Once you were friends you were friends.  She would call, daily.  She would call round, daily.  No complaints there.  She did and does like it when you see things her way!  Admittedly, so do I.

Our first major breakdown was, with hindsight, based upon whether or not we were going to get together.  I'm sure I sent out signals.  My version of them, at least.  She most certainly did too.  Her version.  It was clear, after a short amount of time, that it wasn't going to happen.  She decided, from thereon, that I was utterly hateful.  Something that she lovingly informed everyone who surrounded us of.  But she still called daily.  She still came round daily.

I went round one night, late at night, to tell her that enough was enough.  We'd had a disasterous evening.  She'd insisted that I walked her home.  We did so in fuming silence.  Enough was enough.  She went straight home for the rest of the week.  Things slowly improved from thereon.  They improved, also thanks to the fact that she moved into with R and a couple of other people.   She settled down.  She did, and does, take her time to settle down.

Still friends after 22 years.  We're going away together next week.

A fierce and determined intelligence.  A sad insecurity.  An impatiently high standard.  Procrastination dressed up as consultation.  A plethora of pointless regret.  A sense of style.  A sense of fun.  A sense of fun that's still there.  After twenty two years.