X AND Y
When I am
in London meeting friends, I always end up waiting for them. They are intelligent
and organized but the people they work with are not: they are always running
late or organizing sudden meetings whilst I am sat in a pub. Today I am leafing
through cheap art catalogues and supping a pale ale made by a brewing company I
have never heard of.
A is
waiting for a van to collect his paintings. O will phone me later to meet up
before I go to see E tonight. C has said he and K are also going to that same
event. X and I are meeting up for a concert tomorrow. A and O have met; E has
something to do with the first gallery A showed at; X may have met O, but I am
not sure. C is from a separate world, one of correspondence and long distance
letters, although once M, J, C and I all met up in Cheshire. R was there too.
But that was a different time, and before C married K.
How
strange friendship is. We string it out across distance, sometimes rooted in
shared pasts, sometimes more about where we find ourselves in the present. At
other times it is a kind of jogging along, because we work together or live in
the same village. Sometimes it is not really friendship, but at other times
there is something in the air, and when you first meet you know something is up
and invite them back for a drink. Four hours later you are still sitting in the
garden, surrounded by empty bottles and the remains of an impromptu meal. These
friends are the best.
Group Relaxing under Tree after Meal -- Caroline Youngblood
