BFFs

The first time we met, we sat with an impending assembly and the oppression of, what would feel like, hours of silence at the mercy of our headmistress, the demagogue. My best friend thought I was a lot cooler (and more American) than I really was. I didn’t own my own car at 16 but that didn’t put her off befriending me. Thankfully.

Teen memories are slightly hazy: certain parts stand out, like the generous re-application of the beloved Juicy Tube and ridiculous amounts of money made from working for rich families, giving the nanny a Friday night off. Who in their right mind would trust me with their offspring at age 16?

I had too much money and the licensing laws on the Costa del Sol weren’t tight enough. So after a long week at school, feeling claustrophobic and infantilised, Saturday rolled around, more Juicy Tube, a bit more mascara, a taxi down to the bars and feeling oh.so.glamorous.

I remember gold, maybe a handbag, maybe a general dulling of the senses and vision around the edges, a vignette of sparkles. The golden, natural glow of this picture is far from the synthetic of our teens; it’s much more beautiful.

Nowadays, when we get together, we enjoy a much slower, cosier pace of life. Living in different cities quite often means arrive at one another’s houses late and sitting on the sofa with a blanket into the early hours. We usually text several times a day but somehow it’s different in person, somehow there’s always more to say.

11 January 2019

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