The Importance of Friends

Akelamalu has very kindly nominated me for this Friends award which is lovely and very touching. As far as I am concerned, I hope that everyone that reads this blog is – or will become - a friend – so please take this award and pass it on to whomever you think fit. We can never overestimate the importance of friends.

This came to mind over Christmas when I heard that an old friend of mine who was discovered to have a brain tumour a few months ago, had a scan before Christmas. The news isn't good. He has about four weeks. As I don't want this post to be a real dampener, I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that his personality has changed (because of the tumour) and as a result his partner is having a really bad time of it all.

She is a very gutsy lady who always goes out of her way to help others. She is gregarious, eccentric and caring, and they'd just moved house so they could spend more time together – and now this. All plans tumbled like a pack of cards.

I know she has a lot of friends who will help her through this terrible time. Family will of course as well, but family have their own responsibilities and often live far away. It's friends who are there. When you've been holding it all together and the smallest thing – like stubbing your toe – can release an outpouring of frustration, guilt, loneliness or fear. Or all of those.

It's then that I value my friends most. To be able to pick up the phone and say, in wobbly voice, “can I come round?” or “how about meeting for a drink? In five minutes?” And hearing that soothing voice the other end of the phone saying, “Yes of course, I'll be there in five minutes.”

And oh, the relief of letting it all spill out. Tears of joy or worry; actually voicing those fears that kept you awake all night and now, when exposed to the open air and a kindly friend, suddenly lose their terror. You find you can accept them; laugh over them perhaps.

And you part, later, awash with tea or wine and the best feeling of all. That warm, glowing feeling (no, not the one after sex!) but a quieter, more solid sensation that has its feet on the ground. It is steadying and precious and available to us all to be shared.

Years ago,when I moved to Falmouth and bemoaned leaving all my friends behind, my dear friend Av said, “When you share a problem with someone, that's when they become a friend.”

It hadn't occurred to me until she said it, and of course how right she is.

So in honour of all our friends, and to those especially in need, please pass this post on.

Pampering at a Price

Years ago a friend gave Himself a voucher for an Indian Head Massage for his birthday.

“I went in there to have a haircut and they gave me one of these as well,” he said. “I tell you, it’s better than sex.”

Coming from this particular man, that was saying something. But Himself, being of a suspicious nature when it comes to things alternative, declined the voucher. I don’t know what he thought an Indian Head Massage might do to him (scalp him?) but he viewed it with a mixture of fear and horror.

This year for Christmas Himself gave me a voucher at one of the hotels in Falmouth that has a health spa. Having looked at the brochure I realised that the voucher wasn’t going to cover the price of the cheapest ministration, but I kept quiet about that and booked myself in for an Indian Head Massage. It wasn’t till later that I remembered that endorsement, honest.

So on Saturday I went along. I was knackered and the thought of being pampered was like a dream come true.

Walking into this spa was like entering the health pages of a glossy magazine. Piped music floated forth from invisible speakers, tea lights danced in the soft light, and smells of sandalwood, peppermint, thyme and lavender mingled in the warm air.

I waited, propped on plump pillows, while Anne finished off her previous patient (not her words) and thought how nice it was to do nothing for once.

Then the door to the spa burst open and a young fellow dressed it sports kit (with very muscular legs) strode in followed by two giggling beauty therapists, all carrying a plateful of hot food. The pungent smell of gravy and roast potatoes wafted over in my direction and my stomach gave a large gurgle. Was I going to be fed as well?

Unfortunately the food wasn’t part of my treatment, and the three young ‘uns disappeared into some back room like the witches of Eastwick carrying their mouthwatering plates with them.

Just after that Anne appeared and took me through, and for the next half an hour my shoulders, back and neck were de-stressed. She massaged them with an aromatherapy oil that made me feel almost drugged I was so relaxed. Then she started no the head massage and – well, if you like having your head massaged at the hairdresser, you’ll love this. I could feel every ounce of tension being rung out of me. Wonderful and quite dizzymaking – in the nicest possible way.

Afterwards I was told to get dressed and lie down in the relaxation room where there were the equivalent of sun loungers, water (hot and cold), herbal teas and an abundant supply of magazines.

Heaven. I did say to Himself afterwards that this place was pampering at a price.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to be pampered in a bus shelter, are you?’

He has a point. So if ever you feel like being pampered, go for an Indian Head Massage. I can see what our friend meant. Almost.

Overload and Infidelity

My mind is buzzing today, like a directionless, demented bee. I have too much to do and can’t decide how to prioritise my workload because I’m waiting for various replies from people. Just to make matters worse, when I sit down and try and concentrate on my course, my mind flits to character studies of the novel that I started doing.

I should be working towards a feature for my next assignment but I can’t get my brain to slow down enough. The words dither around in my head before flying out into the garden where they sit, flapping their wings on the washing that drifts, lethargically, in the breeze. Even the sky is a lazy blue.

Last night we were talking about a friend of Himself’s who, many years ago, had a very Open marriage.

‘He made it very clear that he and his wife slept with whoever they wanted,’ said Himself. ‘He said he always dreaded that knock on the door and someone standing on the doorstep saying Hello Father.’

That never happened (he has two legitimate daughters) but one day Himself and the wife were walking back from the pub when she made it very clear that her current lover was about to move on and she wanted a replacement, and that Himself would do.

‘What did you do?’ I said, trying to imagine a bloated middle aged woman groping Himself - tall, angular, younger man.

‘Shag her?’ cried Himself, outraged. ‘I wasn’t that desperate!’

I only hope he didn’t say that to the husband. He might not have been too flattered.