Writing about friends is difficult. More difficult than I thought it would be.

1.   I want them to still like me.
You can always count on family to forgive you. Ex-boyfriends, you’re past what they think.

2.   I can’t remember what we talk about.
We talk about everything and anything. Over Friday dinner, we cover boys, getting old, cancer, alcoholism, careers, parents and gate-crashing parties. I don’t replay these conversations the way I do with my ex. I say what I need to say, without feeling like I need to impress anyone.

3.    I want to capture how awesome they are without being ‘look-at-me-how-lucky-am-I’.

But it’s true. I am lucky.

Lucky to have such friends who make me laugh, think and learn. Biased in my favour but not afraid to tell me when I’m wrong. There for me when I need them most. Before I even realise.

One of the hardest things about breaking up was losing the person who understood me most, in Canberra, at that time. From someone I wanted to tell everything to a shiny, polite veneer.

That was the summer of Baileys and G&Ts. I told everyone I was starting to feel like myself. But when Lisa walked into my life mid-July, I realised I was sleep-walking. She reminded me of my first year in Canberra, when everything was new and I went 'exploring' on weekends.

Out for dinner again? my supervisor joked. Is it a date?

I just laughed.


When Lisa returned home, I thought of my not-so-new friends here and elsewhere.
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.
Friendships cemented with sushi and strange Korean films stumbled across on SBS one night. Or blossoming from rivers of blood in Snowpiercer.

As much as I love re-creating myself (à la Holly Golightly), security is knowing who I am.

And who my friends are.         


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