Belonging

I have several friends who are single. I have one friend who’s just got back together with her husband after a period of separation. I have friends who’ve been married for a long time. Most of my girlfriends are mothers, but I have several who don’t have children, for whatever reason. I have friends who are gay, friends who are straight. I have friends from work, friends from the loony bin, friends I met abroad. But I have never had a circle of friends. Until last Christmas, when we had a party and threw the local friends together, most of them didn’t know each other.

I’ve always been an oddity. I’m unconventional, have never fitted in. I didn’t marry until my early forties. So I suppose it makes sense that most of my friends are not part of a set group. I like that. I like going to the cinema or for a drink and sitting next to them, thinking, ‘these are my mates. I’m proud of them.’ It gives me a warm glow. I also like it when I introduce friends and they get on.

Looking around, mothers form a strong bond, a formidable group, to those of us that are excluded from it. But for the first time in my life I find myself belonging to several groups. Me, the cat that walked by itself. Dogwalkers are one group who provide a good networking support of everything from how to sort out problem dogs to finding accommodation for homeless friends.

As a writer I belong to several groups, some professional, some not. Our local group that meets every week has been a lifeline. We are of different generations, from different backgrounds with different viewpoints. Our link is a love of words, and a necessity to put them on paper for others to read. And preferably get paid for it. That’s a very strong, and very essential bond. We lift each other up when we just know that every word we’ve written is complete garbage. We celebrate each other’s successes. We give words of advice and encouragement, and never, ever, say anything to put our fellows down. Constructive criticism is one (vital) thing. Viciousness is another.

The professional group meets periodically in London and there I meet fellow writers from all over the country. With shaking legs, I meet agents and publishers (sometimes) and try to sound intelligent, not to spill my wine. Afterwards I heave a sigh of relief, feel I could have done better and head for home.

This morning I woke early and hugged to myself the thought that I could read for a whole hour before I had to get up. I pulled back the curtains and the sky darkened as if it was dusk and the rain fell in torrents, rattling the windows and splashing against the walls. As I read, the sky lightened again and gradually I heard other sounds. Someone washing upstairs. A van roaring down the street. Seagulls crying and wheeling overhead.

Next to me, Himself breathed deeply, turned over and muttered in his sleep. A contented sort of grunt. Our cat nudged me with his nose, urging me to stroke his silky fur. He purred ecstatically as I tickled his soft underbelly, white as parchment. And on the floor, lying in a patch of light, our Jack Russell, blissfully soaking up the sun. My family.

When I was single (for many years) I would look at other people and envy them their marriedness, their coupledom. Their automatic right to a group. But we all have some sort of a group. Friends, work colleagues, a love of music or art or words. Of animals or travel. Of food or wine. You’ve heard some of my groups. What are yours?