The Reunion

Reunions don't have the best reputation. Any film I've seen about a “Class Of 19--!” get together of middle aged people involves a fight, several emotional breakdowns, an unrequited crush that results in ten minutes of toilet cubicle sex followed by both parties sharing pictures of their families and realising they'd just imploded their lives over a memory, and the weird competitive, 'So, what are you doing now? Profitable is it?' kind of conversations that curdle the will to live. The prospect of asking and answering the same questions over and over again whilst clutching a warm glass of wine would fill anyone with a weary dread.

What a cunt. It was never going to be like that with the Bretton Hall (Arts section of Leeds University) Theatre Arts, graduating year 1996, and I should have known better.

I was expecting us all to have aged, but no one had. We all still looked twenty. To each other.

In the three years between '93 and '96 we had all imprinted on each other some fundamental part of ourselves that would ignite in a strange reverse alchemical way as soon as we were within nodding distance of each other again. And through the lens of this microcosm we had created, we have all been waiting, set in the amber of a chilly autumn morning with leaves on the ground, new books with un-cracked spines on our shelves and a sense of the future being wholly owned by us, our terrible importance, and all of the magnificent things we'd achieve.

The actual future brought marriage, divorce, children, cancer, success, failure and all the human noise and mess of lives lived outside the bubble of a mansion house set in the grounds of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park.

What did the university look like?

I think I fell in love with Bretton Hall at first sight. My future home – love a bit of Palladian grandeur. A little bit magnificent and magical! The way the more modern buildings clashed with all that in a wonderful wonky way. It felt like special things could happen there. They did. That strange blend of beautiful ancient buildings with the 1950s accommodation blocks staggering up the hill like wonky teeth. It looked cosy, safe, ancient and fresh at the same time. It looked like a beautiful old building in wonderful grounds with a load of scruffy people wandering about. Crusty and Grunge were in at the time. Unworldly. I changed instantly. I wanted to match my surroundings! To be romantic, ethereal, wispy... I remember standing at the top of the path by the gate and saying, 'Wow! That's a long way down!'

(Andy T, Roy, Jonny, Dan, Dom, Chris, Becky, Jane)

For the arrival at the reunion, for the first few hours, what walked into the shitty bargain basement bar of the Holiday Inn Express, Wakefield, was a golden capsule of time suspended friends, whose humour, chemistry and collective energy had been switched back on like a light, as though twenty-five years had been nothing more than a power nap before a big night out.

We belonged to the last hurrah of free education, grants and small year groups. There were twenty-four people on our Theatre Studies course and sixteen of us (plus four friends from other courses) managed to rock up for a reunion that would serendipitously take place at the beginning of term.

If you had to remember that time as a season, what would it be?

Oh fuck off, what does that mean? Ok. Spring and summer. Then it got to the third year and it all got a bit autumnal, when we realised nothing lasted forever. Since then it’s been a relentless bitter winter. Ok. A little exaggeration. Autumn I think, probably because that was when we started and the impression stuck with me as a reference point. I’d go for Spring- there was always something on the boil, lots of life and energy and brightness. Spring, full of hope, expectation, a sense of impending and beautiful change. Spring rain on the concrete and the boozy smells of damp beer mats when you hit the Kennel block. Blossoms and croci poking through and blowing in the wind. Winter. Snowed in. Not getting out and just relying on each other. Ooooh I loved getting snowed in. I love a bit of snow drama! Lazy strolls around the lake and sunny evenings at KB. The growth, the light, the hazy days.

(Dan, Angela, Chris, Becky, Dan, Roy, Jane, Andy T, Dom)

Some bounded through the doors screaming with joy and some entered with more trepidation, but all were welcomed and embraced the same. It is a strange thing in your late forties to walk into a room and find that everyone in it not only knows you quite well on some level but also likes you, and cares about you being there.

I had been talking to my almost husband about friendship the previous week, saying how, as a young idiot I'd always thought it daft when people said you were lucky if you had one good friend in life. But as I got older I'd come to see how that was true. If I had an emergency at 3am there were family members I could call but, at forty-seven, I didn't think there were any friends I could reach out to in an emergency. And even if they said I could I wouldn't, because, honestly? I wouldn't want any fucker calling me at 3am asking for bail or some tarpaulin.

Now, I'm not saying that after two days in the company of my old university friends I'd feel at liberty to hit them up for a loan or anything. But if I was stuck in any one of their home towns and needed a bed for the night I believe I would be welcomed. What a bold and happy thing it is to be able to say that.

All bar two of us were booked into the previously mentioned, Holiday Inn Express, and as Big Gay Roy so succinctly put it, “The place looks like Beirut circa 1981, but it's cheaper than the fine for vomiting in a taxi.”

As people trickled in, what should have been a quick drink before hitting the town, turned into three hours of overlapping orders and banter until the bar woman, with a fixed smile on her face, gave me the shit eye and said, “You lot were going to leave after the last round.”

I speak to Mike C who has been with Jane since uni and he says, 'God, I'm feeling quite tearful now, I didn't know what to expect.' And I talk to Jo R. She and I were friendly but not close at Bretton but I feel an immediate connection to her and I know I want to see her again, after this. She hasn't changed and everyone tells her so, and that they hate her for it. Emma S who wasn't on our course shows up with Shelley whom I only knew through Roy and we have a gleeful time catching up, Emma's Manc twang undiminished by time as she insists we need to get hold of Magnesium Pills from Holland and Barrett if we ever want a great nights sleep again. That woman was always recommending pills. It is a joy to see her huge grin again.

We finally pour out into the early evening streets of an unrecognisable Wakefield to find a pub. Andy T, who had been five years older than us at uni and forever after called 'Pops', had arrived a day before us and found a pub that did karaoke on a Friday night and we marched to it, five drinks in, ready to rock the locals worlds. When we entered the Talbot And Falcon there was a firm collective agreement that we'd just have one here and move on. I had barely put my order in at the bar when the DJ calls out, 'Can we please have Roy to the stage!' Before he takes his pint he nudges me, 'I've put you down for Patsy Cline's Crazy.' And off he goes. We took over that pub and made it our own student union, and after an initial period of suspicion and eye rolling the locals embraced us and joined in the party. The two remaining friends that would join us that evening staggered their arrivals and Will said he was overwhelmed but also felt like he'd walked into a Covid party and everyone was invited. Chris had the time travel experience of walking in as the entire pub sang 'Don't Look Back In Anger' and when I look at the video footage that Angela took I can see everyone singing their hearts out with Chris moving amongst them getting hugged and kissed.

What kind of music were you into back then?

I did very well to hide my shit taste in music in the early days. I was into mainstream indie and only had a very limited musical knowledge. People talked about the Pixies, Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave- I had no idea who they were. Most of my music tastes were then influenced by Will. To sum up each year in an album it would be- 1st year- Underworld Dubnobasswithmyheadman, 2nd Year- Portishead Dummy, 3rd Year Pulp Different Class. I loved dancing to whatever was playing but I couldn’t tell you any of the tunes or who made them. All my Manchester bands but I had started to open my eyes to so much more- Lenny Kravitz, Underworld, Primal Scream, the Orb, orbital, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Mazzy Star. One of the best things about university was rummaging through other people's music collections and then my musical interests broadened without a single look back. Oh, please! It was always Prince. You fuckers tried to introduce me to Leftfield's 'Leftism' and I put my head in the oven. Love it now – I'm so retro. Weird and wobbly stuff. Massive Attack, Portishead, Moby, Bjork. I was, and still am, a pop princess. Tanya loved the Fugees...(Just had to change that cos predictive text changed it to 'refugees') so we listened to them...ALOT.

(Chris, Dan, Roy, Jonny, Becky, Jane)

Angus and I head out for a fag and he mentions that just like five hours ago, he's still starving, so we sneak off to a restaurant and eat the worst meal of our lives before staggering back to our hotel rooms.

This reunion came about, in part, because I wanted to write an essay about our halcyon days and had sent a group message to the ten or so people I was still friends with on social media. I asked if they'd be willing to fill in a questionnaire about their time at Bretton and as agreements trickled in, people added others whom I had lost contact with until we were more or less all present, plus a few who were honorary because we'd been good friends with them even though they weren't marvellous actors like us. The group message took on a life of its own as people shared memories and photo's and over the following couple of weeks I'd receive filled out questionnaires via email, each one a treat to be savoured with a cup of tea and a fag. The longest one came from Jane, a Liverpudlian with a sunny nature and an infectious laugh. Considering she and her bestie, Tanya U, had been drunk for the best part of three years, her memory was outstanding and, like all the answers I received, provided me with the joy of moments I'd forgotten or not been present for.

Can you remember any first impressions?

I'm sorry, I don't do impressions. But first ones like a lot of my memories were the smells of the halls. That first night as I was sorting my room came there a knocking on my door and Emma, who I'd met in a club in Manchester, asked me if I wanted a smoke. We got baked, listening to tunes and talking about Manchesterrrr music and the Manchester music scene. Also the bird who was in charge of looking after we freshers took us to the bar where I got a bit handy and they all fucked off to bed early. I remember walking back through the September night thinking this place is fucking ace. It was dark and badly lit but I didn't care, I had arrived. I had met Andy C at the audition interviews. I remember looking around when the whole of the first year students were in New Theatre and waving to him, he looked at me with his sideways glance and gave an awkward ‘who are you' wave. In the first few weeks I spent a lot of time with other people that I then later didn’t have any connection with. I suppose that once we (TA's) got to know each other, my main relationships were with people on the course. It looked grim! (Smirthwaite) But the natural way a close little community formed there. Arriving at the 'estate' and thinking it was rough as fuck. Everyone seemed a bit common except for Tanya. I met Jo and Becky on our first day in and thought they were lovely and we kinda stuck together. I remember thinking Tanya was very posh. I was sure I wanted to spend the next three years here.

(Dan, Chris, Jonny, Dom, Roy, Jane, Andy T)

The first two people to suggest a reunion were Becky and Will. Becky just said it would be wonderful to see everyone and Will already had plans to take his son up there in August so maybe we could all tag along? Plans started in March with Dan looking at hotels, August was abandoned, and finally October was settled on. A big part of me thought it wouldn't happen and then people started booking accommodation and the bizarre dream of a twenty-five year reunion became a reality.

On Saturday morning with various levels of hangover we all reconvened at the main hotel to bundle into the cars and head back to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. Bretton Hall closed its doors in 2007, eleven years after we left, and when we arrive the main building is surrounded by fencing and, in places, quite derelict. It's a windy, rainy, morning as we head off. Fairly quickly, Dom finds a gap in the fence and we all clamber through and head down into what was our outdoor Greek theatre. There's a huge plaster cast of a white theatrical mask, now grey, lying abandoned in the middle of the weeds, between columns I can remember prancing through in a production of The Bacchae. The door to Experimental Theatre is slightly ajar to the left and so, feeling like naughty kids, we sneak in to have a look. The room where so many plays, rehearsals and unforgivable pretentiousness went on, isn't so much a ghost, as a corpse of its former self. The ground is bare, cracked concrete, rubble really. And the walls are peeling paint and rot. Jonny heads up on to the surround balcony to take a photo of us. We stand huddled together, staring up, some curious, some wanting to get out, all of us having a concrete visual of what visiting the past looks like. Jonny takes the picture, stares at us all for a moment, and says, 'I feel a bit emotional.'

He then wanders off to the library, sets off the alarm, and we leg it back into the park where we're allowed to be.

How reliable do you think your memories are from that time?

So so so clear and considering that booze, the drugs and the distance of them I know they are so incredibly special and will stay with me for ever. Those memories are undeniably rose-tinted...but still not too far from the truth I think. What I can remember is quite clear. If I can’t remember it, I either wasn’t there or not paying attention. I was stoned quite often, but even then, I think that my memory remained intact. Well, considering I blank out a lot when I'm drunk I'm surprised I remember anything! But there's no denying the love and the laughs. An acute sense of everything being so present that it barely got consigned to memory. It's almost like I remember it happening to someone else.

(Dan, Jonny, Chris, Jane, Dom,Becky)

The YSP is five hundred acres of fields, hills, woodland, lakes and formal gardens and it's a beautiful place (despite the hideous Damien Hirst sculptures dotted around like so much shite). We decide to walk around part of the lake, and with the rain drizzling down we wander, take pictures and swap people to talk to. It's peaceful and I spend most of it with Jonny or Angela talking about then and now and some of the stuff in between.

Tell me one anecdote that you wouldn't mind being shared.

Just the one of me and Angus being caught red handed by the Bretton security guard and we had forced, folded and man handled the 12 foot papier mache Tiger into Swithen three. We might have had a few too many ales. Ok, so drunkenly rehoming a 10ft paper mache tiger from its the sculpture park to outside Owen Tribes room in Swithen. On the first night in our new rental in Painthorpe, Dan and I enjoyed a bottle of wine and looked around at our new pad. A little girl opened the letterbox and wanted to know if we’d pay for a blow job. At the student union where everyone was buying everyone drinks, unbeknown to me I’m being bought doubles and triples. After a few hours I’m in the toilet crouched around the bowl. No idea how long I was gone for but my housemates found me and decided to take me home. Due to being crouched for so long (plus the alcohol!) I couldn’t work my legs properly. Apparently I walked like John Wayne all the way to the car, being held up by my friends. I remember the journey home as I had my head resting on the door with the window down and all I could see was the lines on the road rushing by.When I had my first go at taking magic mushrooms, I think I had too much. I didn’t know what to expect, didn’t feel anything, so had some more. Shortly afterwards I climbed into my wardrobe. Wandering around campus later on, Will was talking to me. I understood him, I replied. All that came out of my mouth for some period of time was the word ‘Joop’. Pops taught me a lot but I think he was taking the piss when we were talking about chorizo and he said “No, sorry, no idea what you're talking about.” He worked in an Italian restaurant! Eventually he said, “Oh! You mean 'Choritho!” My how I love Pops!! Teabag testicles. Punching Seta in the face because she couldn't fucking concentrate on a task and got distracted by a rogue hair! There is no joy more profound than drinking and laughing with people who make you happy, and my college years were the perfect distillation of that. I miss them.

(Dan, Angus, Angela, Chris, Jane, Roy, Andy T)

There's a gallery with a fancy canteen on the site now. Very different to the canteen we used to have on campus where you could get a full english for a quid and regret every moment of it. When we've had enough of nature (one hour forty minutes, standard) we head in to meet Andy C who has just arrived and the poor sod has to make his way around us one by one as we all stand grinning at him and his reactions to faces he hasn't seen in over twenty years. We get some food and spend some time in the canteen before bundling back into cars to head back for a nap or a wander before our early bird special dinner at an Italian restaurant at 5.30pm.

I head back with Roy and though we haven't seen each other in ten years we end up laughing so much I find it hard to breathe and he considers pulling the car over so that we don't both die in a massive pile up.

I try to have a nap back at the hotel but being so wholly present makes it hard to switch off so I crawl out of bed, throw some make up on and head back into town to meet people for a drink at the Old Print Works next to Prego where we're having dinner. Dan is wearing a shirt with skulls and roses on it. The previous night his shirt had butterflies on. He looks beautiful. He was always the cool kid, the stylish Mancunian, quick to laugh, full of love.

The meal is loud and chaotic and I pity the waiters. One young waitress opens a bottle of Prosecco and the cork shoots out and hits her in the face. Obviously we were all concerned for her and we expressed that as well as we could over the sound of Roy howling with laughter. I also pity the two women who have been cruelly sat upstairs with us and don't have a chance in hell of holding a conversation over their lasagna.

We swap seats between courses at Pop's suggestion and I spend the first half with Tanya and the second with Andy C, and the chat is so easy, so familiar. At some point I feel Roy stroke a finger down my back and my muscle memory kicks in and I hand him the Prosecco without breaking conversation.

We force Pops to deal with the bill and head off to find a bar which we manage pretty swiftly. Becky has to leave after a drink because she has a wedding to attend the following day. She runs away without a word and sends us a voice mail on the group message;

“I don't think I have ever loved a group of people the way I love you and I'm so sorry I keep bursting into tears. And I'm even more sorry that I've just run away like a dirty thief, but the idea of having to say goodbye to you all is just far too traumatic, I just wanted to go. So, please, please, please don't hate me. I've just had the best 48 hours with the most remarkable bunch of people and I love you all dearly.”

Would you change anything?

Not a sausage. I'd maybe suggest Paul Bond consider changing the shape of his beard but nothing else. That perfect time is scorched on my memory forever and I am now smiling at the ridiculous good fortune that we were we in that utterly divine moment of all of our lives. I’d often thought about the idea of being able to go back and do it again with the confidence and knowledge I have about the uni experience now. I’d definitely tell myself not to be homesick and just throw myself into it all.Comedy-Why the fuck didn’t we create a massive comedy group and call it ‘Headlamps’ and take it to Edinburgh and global domination. We were all so funny and really had fun. I try to make a point of not losing a minute in regret. That way madness lies. Not a thing. No! But perhaps on reflection I could have found out where the library was. Not really. I still feel blessed for having three amazing years there and for it kindling the flame of the person I became.

(Dan, Angus, Chris, Andy T, Roy, Jane, Jonny)

Becky was the first to cry, when she saw Dan. She is the same small, blonde, wholehearted darling that she was back then, and all of us listen to her message at different times and absorb it without too much chat.

We spend that last night in and out of a huge bar, smoking, drinking, catching up with those we hadn't yet had a chance to. Jono decides to drink Martinis and start smoking again and I spend a wonderful couple of hours tucked between him and Will having proper no nonsense conversations. As the night absorbs us, darker tales are told, funnier ones too, and it starts dawning on people that this is nearly over. All the planning, all that excitement and it's nearly time to leave. But before we do, Tanya C, Gareth, Faye, Amy, Andy L, I hope you can join us next time, you were missed and talked of well and often.

No one wants to be back in 1993. For the most part everyone is happy in their lives now, or dealing with necessary change, but we're not yearning to be twenty again with an illusion of a future in which we take centre stage. We're just happy to have found each other again and to be able to say, without expectation or qualification; I love you, I always will.

Did you fall in love with anyone during those three years?

At the time nobody. After twenty-five years I can honestly say I am in love with everyone from the TA course. No, I fell out of love and it oddly felt good. Yes!! My first love was Tanya! I fell in love with her and couldn't bear it when we were apart. I felt very 'disintorionated' when she wasn't there.! (Spelt wrong deliberately...we always said it like that) I also fell in love with Robin...I adored him! I fancied Chris and went out with him for about three weeks. He was gorgeous but I don't think it was meant to be. Some unrequited obsessions. Flingettes. DANIEL SHAW STANLEY – I fell in love – not a romantic love – although I loved the sound and look of him! But him. This boy. This cheeky beautiful soul. Charismatic, charming and so full of life. You tell me. I probably said I did and, on reflection, I might nearly have done. I was too closed off and didn’t open up enough. I wasn’t the best boyfriend material back then. I had three -four main relationships and never let myself get too attached. I regret that. I was told the same thing by different people- that I didn’t open up. I did fall in love with my friends, though, if that counts? I fell in love with so many people in such a way that I have not experienced since. And there are those that I would still die for. In that moment, that epoch, there was something special in our group and ...you couldn't help but fall in love. Stanislavski said, 'you must fall in love with something new everyday' and it is at Bretton where I learned to put that into practice. It was vivid, all consuming, a great adventure.

(Roy, Angela, Jane, Jonny, Becky, Chris, Dan, Angus)

 

 

Quarantine With The Angry French Chef

I'm lying in bed this morning when I get a message. I check my phone and its the French downstairs sending me a picture of the ugliest dog I've ever seen. He's called Gary and he needs a forever home. Hades would be too good for that dog but the French is determined that we need a friend with four legs in these 'interesting times'.

Yesterday, suspecting like everyone that we would be in lockdown by today, we packed a picnic blanket and some icy beers and marched up St Catherine's hill. It was wonderfully deserted and we lay in the sun laughing hysterically and getting a little buzzed. This is the sort of stuff I always want to do with him but he a. loathes exercise and b. works 14 hours a day. We wander back via the river, having the best time, and talk about how this is an opportunity to get fit, lose some weight, learn the piano. Obviously at best we will be emerging from this as pretty high functioning alcoholics but we're all in the halcyon days of self delusion where we think this is going to be all about the quality time.

That's not entirely true. I've always hated going to work and found it got in the way of all my hobbies (much to his constant and utter despair) so for me this really is a time to write, knit, paint and sculpt. And cook, obviously. But for him, well I reckon one more week and I'll be living in The Shining. He's already talking about cooking at homeless shelters or just getting a stacking job at Tesco for 'something to do'.

We decided to do this thing where each of us can choose a film and the other has to watch it without bitching or moaning. I took my turn last night and picked the Ang Lee version of Sense And Sensibility. I was watching him as much as the film, waiting for him to crack. But about forty five minutes in he suddenly shouted 'That Willoughby is a fucking cunt!' And then a little while later 'Oh lo lo, Marianne, calm the fuck down ah.' He enjoyed the film, thought Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman were brilliant. I'm smugly thinking of it as a cultural exchange but I am of course hoping he'll forget its his turn tonight. I honestly don't think I can sit through Ralph Breaks The Internet. Again.

Day Drinking has already morphed in to Morning Drinking and we like to take a Bloody Mary at 10am before any of the serious leisure begins.

I face timed with mum yesterday. She's been inside for three weeks now and is doing remarkably well.

'You okay, mum?'

'Yes dahlink. You need to dye that hair.'

'Do you think that's a priority at the moment?'

'Have you seen it?'

'French did mention it the other day.'

'Well there you go then.'

I feel guilty that I can't visit or kiss her so I'm pretty much doing as I'm told to compensate. I've dyed my hair and I reckon by week three I'll be sat here in a pink twin set weeping in to my gin.

The French and I have agreed to take our daily exercise outings separately. That way we'll have something new to tell each other every day.

'Saw a dog.'

'Me too.'

I've already cracked open a new jigsaw. It's sadly not something we can do together though. He says I'm too bossy but what does he expect if he doesn't separate out the edges and the corners first like any sane person would!

I'm knitting my niece a onesie. Which seemed ambitious for a first post scarf ability only skill, until the lockdown.

We're lucky because we have a lovely garden that runs down to the Itchen Abbas river. I'm sat in the garden writing this and every time someone wanders past, which is gratifyingly rare, they wave and smile. Which is a nice little interlude before the looting starts.

I've cracked open some old Rick Stein recipe books today and plan to make a Tuna Empanada and an olive oil and pine nut cake. I make extra of everything, freeze it and leave it on mum's doorstep. She's going to have gout by the time this is over.

The French has just returned from his exercise/pharmacy/shop visit. He's brought back what he considers to be the essentials. Five kinds of cheese, chocolate, beer and puff pastry.

We're going to be fine.

Ginger Ale At Three

It's just after three am and I'm squinting in the glare of the fridge light looking for the diet coke I know we don't have.

I wake up at around three most days. Sometimes just for half an hour, sometimes till five and occasionally that'll be it for sleep that night.

For me it's a good time for ideas, for writing and for visiting with the dead.

I wonder if other people get up in the night at around this time and think about someone that loved them, that they loved, that aren't here anymore. I like the image it conjures; people alone but together, sat by lamp light with a cup of tea, remembering.

The only thing in the fridge is half a bottle of ginger ale which is only ever used as a mixer.

I drink it all and put the kettle on.

Lucy would have said 'lashings of ginger ale' because there was a bit of the St Trinians in her manner or maybe Enid Blyton. She said things like 'jolly' instead of 'fun' and 'supper' instead of 'dinner'. She had a very distinctive voice that even in life sounded like a memory of happy times past.

Having known each other since our teens she was familiar with my sleep patterns and in recent years would sometimes text me at one or two in the morning;

'Are you up? Can I call? I'm in a bit of a pickle.'

A pickle usually meant she'd drunk too much and had either done something appalling or was just feeling afraid of the world and wanting comfort.

When she'd done something appalling the telling of it would begin with;

'We were having a simply splendid evening when....' followed by a heavily edited account of her behaviour which I would have to chip away at until I got to the truth of it.

She could go from soft and warm and funny to a towering rage in the blink of an eye. When we were young we attributed it to her shocking red hair and an Irish streak. In later years it was the wine.

She was a year younger than me when she died last summer. Her sister called me and asked if I wanted to speak to her as she didn't have much time left. As it turned out she only had about an hour left. I talked to her as I'd always done, about our happy memories and her terrible singing. I told her that I loved her and there was nothing to be afraid of. Her sister said;

'She heard you, she was listening and smiling, she raised an eyebrow.'

Morphine though, who knows.
I miss her voice, her humour, her wicked laugh.

You never really have a choice what you write about. I prefer to be funny, I like making people laugh. But this is what wanted to be written today and even though some of it is sad a part of me is still trying to figure out a way to make you laugh, put a punch line at the end. We'll see.

It's not really Lucy I'm visiting with this morning, it's Mutti, my grandmother, and it's because of the ginger ale.

She always had at least half a dozen bottles of it in the fridge to mix with southern comfort. She called it a Soft Shoulder and she discovered this drink because of the terrible migraines she suffered in middle age. She'd feel one coming and take to bed. She'd hear this terrible screaming in the distance which it turned out was her. When she came to a few days later her forehead would be covered in blisters from the boiling compresses they'd put on her head to draw out the pain. How efficacious this was I have no idea and who 'they' were I can't quite remember. I hate that about my memory. I can't just call her and say; 'Who looked after you? Where were you?'

I think it was a boy. I think she was in the Maldives, or the Bahamas.

Afterwards they brought her a bottle of Southern Comfort and mixed it with ginger ale and it was delicious. Thereafter it became something she associated with feeling better, a soft shoulder to lean on.

She lived in Spain for as long as I knew her, she didn't want to grow old in the UK, but would drive to England every easter for three weeks and bring us a car full of gifts that she'd been buying and wrapping since her last visit. There would be books, poetry, fancy notebooks, cartons of cigarettes, wine and southern comfort. One year she brought me a big easter egg made out of cardboard and bright yellow. When I cracked it open like a pinata it was full of mini bottles of southern comfort and five pound notes.

She'd wrap the cartons of cigarettes in cheerful paper and if stopped at customs would magically transform in to a helpless old dear.

'They're dolls for my grand daughters officer. Yes, I wrapped them all myself. If you must open them please be kind enough to wrap them again...with my arthritis it took ever so long to....'

And they'd let her through. A seventy something year old fag and booze mule.

She'd tell me all about it whilst sitting cross legged in the living room smoking a fancy little cigar and drinking a long glass of whiskey with plenty of ice and just a smidge of ginger.

She lived to be just shy of a hundred. The only shy I think she's ever been.

She's been gone about two years now and I can honestly say I think about her every day. We don't forget them, we just wear them. Every loss adds to us in some small way and we adapt so that we can carry them with us.

When I'm paying for something I see her photo smiling up at me from my wallet and I always brush my thumb over her face before putting in my pin number.

As we get older the people who love us unconditionally become fewer, particularly if we don't have children, and I suppose that part of grief is selfish but I don't feel sorry for it.

I think of Mutti as being perennially a very young seventy five. Ninety nine is a good innings but I think she could have done without the last couple of years which took her independence, her hearing and most of her sight. She stuck around by choice, she was single minded and very stubborn and determined to outlive her dog. A tiny griffon that was devoted to her as all the previous dogs had been.

She was never afraid of death. She told me that once you get old it becomes less and less a thing to dread, that whatever came next would be an awfully big adventure. I think she was paraphrasing Peter Pan. She became a buddhist late in life and spent a fair bit of her early morning, yes, usually around three am, meditating. She outlived two of her three children and when I asked her how she coped with the grief she said 'I enjoy everything three times. A good drink, a beautiful morning, whatever it is, I enjoy it once for me, once for Paddy and once for Trudi.'
I miss her voice, her stories, her blind and fierce love of me.

Co-incidentally Mutti and Lucy were the last two people to regularly send me hand written letters. Another thing I miss terribly. But then I have my old red suitcase, bursting at the seams, filled with years of correspondence from them. From Mutti, Lucy, Dad, Uncle Dione, The Aunt and a few other friends who didn't get to grow old. I carry them with me wherever I go and I can visit anytime I like. I don't. But I can.

The birds have just started their morning ritual of abuse and the odd car can be heard outside. It will be light soon on another crisp bright morning. He'll wake wanting coffee and we'll wrap ourselves up and head out for a walk so I can look at the trees and the river and he can say he's done his weekly exercise. We'll point out dogs we like the look of and talk about the someday when we can have one too. A dog called Atticus and a cat called Catticus. Then we'll have breakfast at our friends restaurant and decide what to do with our day off together. What to cook, what to watch. I'll call my mum, maybe see her for a cuppa. Text my sister and probably my niece. Email my brother. Confirm plans with friends. What an embarrassment of riches.

And I'll carry my loved ones with me, my moveable feast, and enjoy everything at least three times. And then three am will roll around again and I'll tell them all about it.

One Billboard Outside Palm Springs, California.

We were in Palm Springs for the wedding of my good friends David (Lips) Lipman and Stephen (no nickname) Donegan.

I wrote a blog about it but it just didn't do the thing justice. Largely because the whole three day wedding was so huge I ended up just straight 'reporting' it. Sort of like; “This happened and then THIS happened – and then, I shit you not – THIS HAPPENED.”

So I'm sat here at two am, having woken up with a body clock telling me it's around midday, thinking I should give this another punt.

I'm chewing Gaviscon because the one thing you always take home from America is indigestion, smoking my duty free fags and wearing slippers. I feel like Cinderella after the ball except no one has shown up with a glass slipper and returned me to the life I have so falsely become accustomed to.

In fact my Prince is happily snoring in the next room and will probably wake up at a completely reasonable hour wanting bacon.

When I told him we were going to California for an event that would make the Royal wedding look a bit shabby he ran around the house shouting “We're going to Palm Springs Baby!' and continued to do so regularly for the next six weeks. When we arrived he just dropped the “We're going to” part and shouted at anyone who'd make eye contact with him “PALM SPRINGS BABY!”

One of the many things I love about him is that he still genuinely feels excitement. Childlike glee. He lives in the moment whereas I always remain slightly outside of it, narrating in my head.

The flip side of this is that I can sit on an uncomfortable ten hour flight and think 'This is fine, it'll be over soon and I must remember to get some milk on the way home.' Whereas he will spend most of that time convinced that the man sat adjacent to us is sniffing every thirty seconds to deliberately ruin his life.

On the way out, about half way through our flight, he had to grab a stewardess to stop her accidentally killing a toddler. She was shoving her trolley down the aisle at speed and couldn't see the kid that had escaped from its mother running full pelt towards the metal death trap. He was rewarded with the woman screaming at the top of her lungs. He tried to explain what had happened but she just put her hands up and shouted 'Enough!' which was weird in itself, as though men regularly grabbed her and shouted 'Attencion!'

She stormed off and he was rightly furious and wanted to complain or at least explain what had happened. I insisted that he say nothing and we'd deal with it once we were off the plane. I could see our holiday starting with an arrest on arrival, so hysterical was the woman's reaction. Fortunately she returned ten minutes later and thanked him for, as she put it, 'helping her not accidentally hurt a child in the line of duty'. Okaaaaaay.

Our first priority when we arrived in Palm Springs was to find a bar where we could drink and smoke simultaneously. Finding places to smoke became a bit of a comedy theme during the week and by the end of the wedding celebrations there was a hardcore group of ten of us whispering about bushes we'd found and blind alleys. There's something hilarious and very British about being stood at an opulent cocktail party at the Ritz Carlton Mirage overlooking the desert mountains (that have the grooms initials projected on to them!) and having someone from London sidle up to you and mutter “I hear you're the people to talk to if you want to have a sneaky fag.”

Rom would give a subtle nod towards some dark corner. 'Give it a minute and follow me to the cactus on the left. Be cool man. BE COOL.'

If you ask me what Leonardo DiCaprio's house (where they had the ceremony) was like I could confidently tell you that there's a spot just in front of the tennis court and behind the pool house where you could smoke, in the cool shade, without being seen. In fairness we did create a water based ashtray with the help of Vigo (one of the other French chain smokers) for fear of burning the place down, and we cleared up all of our cigarette butts. We're not animals. Although I do like the image of DiCaprio pacing around on his property, learning lines, and spotting a Marlboro crushed out on the ground. It's not just a no smoking house you see. No, no, no, It's a no smoking NEIGHBOURHOOD. When, on arrival, we (me and Alex – a gorgeous tiny Croatian woman) tried to have a smoke out the front we were swooped on by security.

'Sorry ma'am this is no smoking environment. It's a fire risk you see.'

A fire risk? We're in the fucking desert! Wearing reflective glass out here is fire risk!

Anyway. Finding places you can smoke and drink simultaneously. Rom and I were directed to a bar in downtown Palm Springs called The Village Pub. Think of all the images 'Village Pub' conjures in your mind and then abandon them utterly. This place was a dive. A dirty, loud, rock music and low cut everything dive. And we LOVED it. It became our daily spot between extremely glamorous events and by the end of the week we were on fist bumping terms with the staff. It's also where I tried my first Michelada. A Bloody Mary with a bottle of beer poured in it and a spicy rim. Christine introduced me to it. I'll get back to Christine. Gods I love her.

Our hotel is just opposite the grooms hotel and the following morning we wander over to say hello, meet at least a dozen new people and have some drinks. The almost entirely perfect looking man at reception guides as to the lifts and tells us to have the best day. We stare at him slack jawed. He's so...perfect. He's gym fit, beautiful, immaculately dressed and looks like the happiest person on earth. I continue to stare until I find a tiny shaving nick on his neck assuring me he is human and we move on.

David and Stephen are staying in the suite on the 6^th floor and it is very fancy.

The glass walls show a panoramic view of the desert mountains. There's a white pool table, a vintage record player, all the furniture looks like art. The grooms themselves look happy and bewildered, exactly as you'd expect when all your family and friends descend on you at once.

I'm so happy to see them I keep kissing them. Rom loves them straight away, it's hard not to, and there's a lot of hugging and wows. Stephen whispers to me:

'I love Rom. You always know in five seconds if a person has a good heart, I just loved him right off.'

Which is how I feel about Stephen and David. Without becoming overly sentimental and mawkish about it, those boys have a good life, the best of everything, but what makes being around them so special is that its never about that. They share their lives with you wholeheartedly, they want you to enjoy every minute of your time and they go out of their way to make sure of it.

At least three people ask me upon introduction if I saw the billboard. I have no idea what they're talking about and David tells me they had one put up on the highway welcoming us to their wedding. Unfortunately by the time our driver made it through the commuter traffic it was dark and we missed it. But there were a lot more surprises to come over the following days. Big ones.

I ask where Christine is. I met her on my last visit and found her to be hilarious and a full six foot of fun. Largely booze related. She has possibly the coolest job as a mixologist who gets to travel the world showing people how to make a good drink.

'She's just doing a wine run,' David tells me. I assume she'll return with a couple of bottles of something to top up the bar but of course she returns with two porters and several trolleys full of beer, spirits, wine and ice. She asks them to bring up two fridges because ice is a ball ache and everything appears like magic. She turns to one of the porters:

'What's your name?'

'Igor.'

'Igor, you're killing it.'

She towers over everyone with her short bleached hair, purple lipstick and a laugh that sounds like gravel.

I go over and hug her delighted I'll be spending some time with her over the next few days.

Rom is wandering around the suite making a video to torture our friend Ollie in the UK with. He makes one a day and sends them to him.

“Hey buddy, just thought I'd share with you where we are right now...'

Ollie responds gracefully and never once tells him to just fuck off.

We meet a lot of the grooms family on both sides. Easy to tell apart because they all look alike. Stephen's family all have cheekbones you could cut your wrists on and David's all have his lips and eyes. There's some fantastic Boston accents and a few Australian. Apart from the core smokers whom we obviously spend large portions of our time with we also spend a good amount of time chatting to Kellie and Joe from Stephen's side. Joe and Rom talk about food and Kellie and I talk about creativity in schools and before long we have a solid invite to visit them in Boston.

We've also been invited to Goa to visit Vigo. She's French and lives out there working as a location scout. She's at the wedding with her friend Alex the glamorous and tiny Croatian woman. They are in the next hotel room to us and we become firm balcony friends.

I was telling Vigo, who's a young widow, that Rom is a nightmare in restaurants. He judges everything, questions everything, will tell the staff exactly what he thinks at the slightest provocation. She laughs and says Matt was the same.

'We'll be sat somewhere and he'll be rearranging the cutlery on the table, complaining about something. I'd just say “Oh shut up!”' She takes a drag on her cigarette. 'Of course, I miss it now.'

My heart contracts and I swear to myself I'll never complain about his nature again. Until we're in the next restaurant and he wants to know how they justify eight dollars for a beer.

On Friday Christine and I spend a few hours by the pool coming up with names for the cocktails she's made especially for the wedding.

I suggest she calls the non alcoholic one 'The Intervention.'

'Yah, that's one hundred percent hilarious and a hard no. Stephen would literally kill me.'

We come up with 'Stand By Your Tini' for her take on an Espresso Martini and 'The Doneman' (The grooms names blended) for the champagne cocktail.

Stephen texts back immediately:

'No. No to all of that.'

We sigh and come up with something a little more classy and are rewarded with a “Maybe.”

My plan before the welcome reception at the Ritz that evening is a siesta and a pre drink. She's having her nails done and getting the grooms initials tattooed on her hand.

'It feels right,' she drawls.

Everyone around the pool is wearing factor 70 because the sun is about two inches away. She's wearing a bikini, no protection at all and drinking hot coffee.

There's no bar at our hotel which we agree is probably a good thing or we'd be nipple deep in Pina Coladas by now. We grab a cold beer from the shop instead and laze about discussing the toasts we have yet to write for the post ceremony dinner tomorrow night and then she heads off. To get a fucking TATTOO.

When we arrive at The Ritz I'm as much distracted by the grandness of it all as I am by the facelifts. Not amongst the guests but just at the entrance. Some people staying there who are waiting for drivers. One elderly lady looks like a bulldog clip at the back of her head is holding her face on.

The drinks reception has been set up by an infinity pool overlooking the mountains. There are candles everywhere and beautiful little trays of food on various tables.

We mingle and chat and admire everything before settling in one of the open candle lit tents to eat soba noodles from take out cartons, and tiny sliders and pistachio crème brulee. Christine rocks up with four precariously balanced plates.

'It all looks so goooood,' she says.

Rom tells her the charcuterie is great.

'Wow I didn't see that.' She wanders off and returns with two more plates.

David and Stephen spend the evening trying to speak to everyone and I don't see them eat a bite. They've organised this incredible wedding and they are the most hard working people at it. They look happy though and we're all excited by the prospect of the wedding the following day.

By ten pm we're dead on our feet and head back to the hotel. But not until I've gone to the loo and discovered a tray of complimentary creams, combs, lip balm, all emblazoned with The Ritz logo. I take one of everything. I'm classy that way.

The wedding doesn't start until six pm but we are up at seven too excited to sleep.

We eat a huge breakfast at The Broken Yolk, down a couple of zantac and spend the day swimming and preparing.

Christine and I head to Mac to buy glittery eye shadow for me and yet another lipstick for her. I thought my twelve Mac lipsticks were impressive. This girl owns over sixty five. The sweet sales girl makes several suggestions and Christine gets excited about a gold lipstick.

'Yah,' the girl says. 'That one is sooo cute.'

'Uhuh,' Christine murmurs. 'I do not love that as much as I thought I would. Huh.'

The girls smile never slides off and in the end Christine finds something red and classy and something blue, holographic and very her.

The afternoon is spent doing hair, make up and climbing in to very fancy outfits. I see Rom in a suit for the first time and nearly propose to him. I'm pretty sure I see him wink at himself in the mirror at one point.

We drag Christine from her room with its expansive floordrobe (she is walking chaos). She looks like a felony. I get her to remove one of the gold chokers so we can see her neck and she's perfection. We head over to The Rowan for drinks before getting an Uber to the Leonardo DiCaprio estate.

The wedding theme is Black and White and everyone has gone to town. We all look and feel amazing and as we're handed champagne on arrival there is a palpable air of excitement and anticipation.

Rom makes his video of the day for Ollie:

'So, here we are at Leonardo's place...'

Ollie texts back 'Let's buy it.'

Everything is beautiful. I could go in to detail but just imagine the most fancy and beautiful wedding you've ever been to and then multiply that by a hundred.

I asked Christine earlier in the day if she was a cryer at weddings. She gave me a firm no on that. The moment she sees Stephen and David walk hand in hand across the lawn she starts bawling.

The ceremony takes place as the sun sets and it's lovely and very moving. I see Stephen rubbing his thumbs along his fingers and remember him mentioning it the night before:

'Apparently it puts you in the moment. I don't want to miss anything.'

Lovely words are spoken, music plays, candles are lit for absent loved ones, but for me its one tiny moment when Stephen lifts his hand and touches the side of David's face. I squeeze Rom's hand and tell Christine to stop fucking weeping.

We have another drink and everyone tries to hug the grooms. Rom points out that there's nowhere set up for the meal. We wonder if its hidden somewhere around a corner until we're suddenly ushered out and handed an envelope with our names on it. Inside is a table number and a penny.

We're guided on to buses and taken for a short five minute drive to the Palm Springs Museum.

This is a huge surprise for everyone and as we make our way up the candle lit steps to the entrance we're invited to throw our pennies in the fountain and make a wish.

Inside the place is mind blowing. There's huge garlands of white flowers under spotlights, giant silver candle holders on the tables and beautiful crystal glasses glinting in the light. A ten piece band is playing by the dance floor and champagne cocktails appear from every direction. A film starts up on one of the walls with David and Stephen in voice over. Footage of them in the dessert looking handsome and elegant. They talk about their love for each other and at the end we see them walking down some stairs. We turn to find them walking down some stairs next to the band and everyone applauds. They say a few words and finish with 'Let's Eat!'

After a fabulous meal the speeches start and Christine and I pound champagne in anticipation of going up to the mike.

By the time it's my turn, I'm last (thanks boys!) I'm not nervous at all and I have the best time telling stories about them and watching the crowd laugh. We all get huge rounds of applause and when it's done we decide we can now get drunk in earnest. Christine and I do tequila shots at the bar with some of the other girls followed by Stand By Your Tinis and lots of wine. People keep coming up to me and saying nice things about my speech and before long I'm jumping up and down on the spot on the dance floor. I vaguely remember tiny Alex shimmying over to me and saying:

'You belong to me now. I am going to stalk you. I lovvvvvvvve youuuuuuu.'

It was just that kind of night.

We eat some late night lobster mac n cheese and enjoy ALL the wedding desserts and stagger out around one with gift bags (A book of the museum and a donut, the significance of which made me well up) and fell in to our beds.

The following morning was a lot less pretty.

I find Vigo on the balcony smoking and looking grey.

'We don't remember getting back last night. I remember nothing. Did I make a fool of myself?'

'No idea,' we all agree.

Alex hugs and kisses me. 'You belong to me now,' she whispers.

It's Sunday and the wedding isn't over yet. Today is an all day pool party back at The DiCaprio place with unending cocktails and tacos. The perfect hangover cure.

I put on a shit tonne of glitter and red lipstick and once again drag Christine from her dungeon. Rom is feeling very perky having stuck to beer the night before.

We arrive to another scene of gorgeous indulgence. After a Bloody Mary and some large mimosas my hangover vanishes and the day passes in a haze of laughter, food, stories and swimming. With several trips to the smoke hideout. Nothing catches fire, all butts are removed and we do not destroy Stephen and David's lives by burning the estate to the ground.

I spend a good hour in the jacuzzi talking to Tracy from London, who makes animated films and is full of great stories. Rom wrestles with an inflatable swan and works his way through a bucket of corona.

And then its over and we head back to our hotels replete and determined to leave the grooms alone for five minutes so they can have some time together. They look happy and exhausted. Well, David does. Stephen says he's still golden and will probably collapse the minute its all over and everyone has gone home.

I say bye to Christine after breakfast the next day and wish I had more time with her but I know I'll see that one again. She's like a bad penny. Lots of goodbyes are said to new friends and promises are made to meet up wherever, whenever we can. I think David and Stephen would love to know that. They brought a lot of people together.

The last three days of our holiday are spent eating pizza, watching films in bed and strolling to our local dive for drinks and cigarettes.

We meet David and Stephen for one last drink at their hotel and thank them for everything. They have been incredible. I love them so much. So does Rom.

On the drive back to LAX we pass the billboard. Two grooms and a heart welcoming friends and family to their wedding in Palm Springs. A class act.

Du Pain, Du Vin, Du Allergic Reaction To The Sun.

We are on our annual holiday in France. I can call it our annual holiday now because this is the third consecutive year. It is our yearly pilgrimage to visit the mother of the Angry French Chef.

She lives in a picturesque village in Provence called Fontaine Du Vaucluse. There's rivers, trees, little bundles of lavender tied up with string, young virgins on old bicycles in cotton summer dresses with baguettes in baskets and a soon to be crushed Joie de vivre. It's that bit of France you've seen in every film concerning coming of age, long summer holidays and innocence lost to strange plinky plinky music.

It's also fucking hot.

The first week was just the three of us drinking cold beer and cheap rose, taking dips in the pool, reading throw away thrillers and having little bbq's. For the most part a very relaxing endeavour. Until I foolishly suggest we play some cards one night after dinner. They both shrug casually. Deceptively casually. It's Gin Rummy, what could possibly go wrong? Twenty minutes later I notice my hands are shaking as I deal another hand and pray that I lose. Neither of them have smiled since the first cards were dealt. I'm not sure either of them have blinked. La Mamon, who is normally a warm, affectionate and loving woman now looks like a professional card sharp and the Angry French Chef is squinting at her, looking for any tells, any crack in her stony facade. We play in utter silence. Years pass. I go to bed and stare at the ceiling.

The following morning we eat fresh croissant from the local bakery and chat about the food we're going to cook that day. It's casually suggested that perhaps, maybe, if anyone can be bothered, we might pick up the card game again after dinner. I keep my head down and bargain with any passing deity that might be listening. Let them forget. LET THEM FORGET.

By day three I have developed an allergy to the sun. I have a lovely tan and a bubbling blistering rash up both my arms that is hotter than hell and itchier than a bath of ants.

La Mamon lets me experiment with over the counter medication for about a week until she insists I let her take me to the doctor.

The doctors in France don't wear uniforms. They wear jeans. And converse. And trendy t-shirts. They have cool wire rimmed glasses and their office walls are covered in framed photographs of them on exotic holidays. He takes a brief look at my arms, nods and prescribes very strong antihistamines. He tells me to wear a hat, long sleeved clothing and avoid the sun for about two weeks. It's 36 fucking degrees in the shade. He says it's okay to swim as long as I remain at least a foot under the water. So presumably I need to grow gills.

I decide to take the pills and mostly ignore the advice but every time I lounge in the sun with a book La Mamon appears out of thin air and throws a damp towel over me.

In addition to this we are both the new hot spot in town for mosquitoes who arrive in large groups with tiny napkins wrapped around their evil necks. Or whatever passes for a neck in the form of pure hatred. We're sort of used to that though and pass the cortisone back and forth with minimal griping.

Two of our friends, Mr and Mrs S, join us for the second week of the holiday and within ten minutes we're enjoying cocktails by the pool. We're excited to have them here and I secretly hope the mosquitoes will enjoy a new source of food and leave me and Angry alone for one sweet minute.

Mr S is in his absolute element. Two of his favourite things in life are fine wines and cheese and of course both are abundant here. Mrs S has a dip in the pool and gurgles with laughter as she tries to teach Mr S an exercise involving a noodle. She then lies in the garden as the sun dries her un-blistered skin. I sit in the shadows smoking a cigarette and slap away another mosquito that has settled on my neck.

Sunday brings the World Cup Final and there is an air of nervous anticipation from the moment we wake up. La Mamon has arranged a party for the viewing. The first to arrive is her neighbour, Nicole, who is around seventy and sporting a France T-Shirt, a comedy hat, red white and blue sunglasses and the French flag. She is beyond excited and shouting “Allez les Bleus!” before she's even through the door. Within half an hour there's thirteen of us. Everyone is facing the TV except me. I'm facing a bottle of prosecco and liberally adding limoncello. When they all stood for the national anthem I knew they had to win. The alternative was unthinkable and terrifying.

Two hours later a giant speaker has appeared from somewhere and people are dancing in the garden, arms linked, heads thrown back with joy. Raymond (a man built like a brick shit house) is naked in the pool swinging his pants around his head. Homemade liquor appears, cherries soaked in something toxic also and before long it's riotous. The last thing I see as I drag myself up the stairs is La Mamon wrapped in a yellow sarong, hands in the air shimmying across the garden, her glass of rose spilling in to the grass.

The next day is a quiet one. Everyone moves slowly with muttered groans. Mr S has maybe the worst of it. The last to bed and the recipient of many whiskey top ups he stares in to space and I can hear him blink.

My niece La Dude joins us the following morning from Toulouse where she now lives. Knowing she likes the rougher booze I ply her with Papa Doble's that contain large measures of a terrible white rum we've bought called 'Old Nick'. And rightly so. Only Satan and my niece could enjoy that immediate and unceasing burn.

The evening is spent peeling gallons of prawns cooked by The French on the plancha in the garden. All of the women are in bed by midnight (La Dude face down on the sofa with a mirror by her mouth) and the boys stay up till 4am talking about whatever it is men talk about in the early hours and drinking anything cold.

Since then I've cooked a giant Paella in the garden with the help of La Dude and Mrs S and afterwards we played a ridiculous mime game called Heads Up. During one memorable round Mrs S had to guess the word we were all frantically miming. The word was 'Tourist' and so we all kept pointing at ourselves. She called out 'FRIENDS!' and everyone paused and collectively sighed at the loveliness of it.

Today we kayaked down a gorgeous river and marvelled at indigo coloured dragonflies all around us. Afterwards we walked through a stream to get to a bar that served icy cold Vedett.

We are all now so relaxed we can barely acknowledge each other. Some are lazing in the pool, some napping, some reading and I'm doing this though I can hardly be bothered to finish this  damn sente...

The Round Robin

Dear (INSERT NAME HERE)

Well another year has rolled around and we haven't managed to catch up face to face. But be assured I miss you terribly (INSERT NAME HERE)!

I talk about you often dear (INSERT NAME HERE) and have such fond memories of our time in (INSERT PLACE/RESTAURANT/CULT/ DEPROGRAMMING UNIT/ CULT SUPPORT GROUP HERE).

If we'd had kids I'm sure little (INSERT NAME HERE) would be doing marvellously at his Montessori school and looking forward to all the gifts Satan will be bringing him for christmas.

And had I finished 'that' novel I've been tiredly working on for two decades then I imagine this letter would be a lot shorter and considerably less humble.

But life being what it is – a long inexorable march toward death, the terror thereof ameliorated by alcohol, shiny bargains and life hacking TED talks that convince us we matter – 2017 was sadly not the year that I became a success. Or in many ways, a grown up.

The tree is up! Imagine our delight when we woke in the morning to find it potted and bedecked with baubles. We almost believed in Father Christmas for a moment until we followed the trail of our visa receipts and realised that we had in fact put the damn thing up ourselves. Who knew that off licenses sold decorations? Not I. And once we'd wiped the blood off the ornaments they certainly did glitter with all the promise of a turd wrapped in tinsel.

I suppose a small re-cap of the year is in order so I'll do my best to lift something from the addled fog of sleep deprivation that was the past 11 months.

January brought an all inclusive trip to Mexico and the mere sight of a lime can evoke the heartburn and indigestion that prevailed.

We returned just in time to catch the beginning of a new sitcom in which a narcissist with the IQ of a spoon became president of the United States. We laughed and laughed until the tears ran down our faces. They haven't stopped.

By March everyone in the UK with an accent was proposing to their English partners and quicker than you could say 'Brexit' the invites were pouring through the door. Of course a lot of people had quite a difficult time finding venues that could host their big day what with all the staff being either on the guest list or getting hitched.

I have absolutely no recollection of April or May but judging from the tattoo on my back I can only assume that this is a blessing.

June fluttered in with all the promise of a summer that would never come but we removed three layers anyway huddled around the aga.

That's a lie. I should have an aga by now but I don't. I refer you to the unfinished novel.

We skipped through July aided by industrial strength ibuprofen and a can do attitude and skidded to a halt in August for a long conversation about all the BBQ's and picnics we were going to have. And never did.

In September I went to the gym, enjoyed their power shower and a pep talk before leaving and never returning.

With October came the rustle of fallen leaves, fallen loved ones and fallen standards.

With a new found determination I opened the fridge, pushed aside the weight watchers 1 point loaf and reached for the cheese. I wrapped it in chocolate and enjoyed it with eight pouches of Virginia Bright and a vitamin C tablet dissolved in gin.

In November I wrote half a book, deleted it and played scrabble online with a woman in New Delhi who had a broader vocabulary than I. Me. I.

Which brings us to today.

As I sit here, a metaphorical pizza in a gluten free dairy intolerant world, and think of you dear dear (INSERT NAME HERE). I wonder what lessons I can take from this last year and what if any wisdom I can impart.

The answer at first glance appears to be 'fuck all.' But I'm going to just keep typing and see what emerges.

If your 2017 has been good to you then pay it forward it 2018 and make someone else's next year one to celebrate.

If your 2017 has been shit don't come moaning to me about it, I've got enough on my plate.

If you're full of fear and trepidation about what's to come, don't panic, we all are.

If you're confident that everything is going to be okay, you're probably ill informed or haven't read the small print.

If I can wish anything for you in the coming year then it's what I wish for myself: Good health, good love and good times. Moments of real happiness that cannot be expressed on social media because they rest in your heart and not in your humble brags. A sense of truly moving forward, always striving to attain the things you want without forgetting to be present because as the cliché goes, it's the road that counts and not the perceived Eden at the end, the chasing of which will always be more than the attainment.

We too often take a picture of a tree or a sunset and post it because we want the world to think we find it beautiful and be validated as the sort of person who appreciates the gorgeous vicissitudes of nature. Don't take a picture. Just look at the fucking tree. It'll be boring at first but with practise and time we might all become the people we'd much rather be.

Always tip your server, and do so in cash. Try to be kind even when you want to rip someone's lungs out for being a complete mouth breather.

Unless you have a genuine life threatening food intolerance, shut the fuck up and eat what is put in front of you.

Take dance lessons.

Learn an instrument too late in life.

Use the words 'Omnishambles', 'Clusterfuck' and 'Brouhaha' (It's time they made a come back)

Write a letter.

Write a book.

Kill your darlings when you do.

Have a wonderful time of it all because we're not here for all that long and we are terribly lucky to be here at all.

Try not to be a cunt.

And take comfort dear, dear (INSERT NAME HERE) that you are nothing. You are barely an idea in a huge canvas of much more important things than you and the universe doesn't give a toss about you. There's a freedom in really knowing that. It makes you feel special.

I love you. Stay golden. Let's not leave it so long this time.

Love,

(INSERT NAME HERE) Xx