My best friend lives in London. You know, my best friend.
The kind of friend who’s been there since, like, forever. The one you started your first day of school with. The one who you went on holidays with. The one who knows what GC means, and the power of those two little letters. The one you made up plays with. The one you knocked a secret code through the walls with.
The one you call in the middle of the night to cry with. The one who picked you up, again and again and again. The one who doesn’t judge you when you snog tattooed weirdos. Or barmen. Or hang out with gangsters. Or go out with suspected Satanists. Or wear trenchcoats with cut off gloves. Or cry to ‘Love Bites’. The one who doesn’t judge you, ever. The one who gets up on the bar counter with you to do the Macarena. The one who goes with you, reluctantly, to that bar on Long Street, just in case he’s there. The one who rolled her eyes with you, when he wasn’t.
The one who celebrated every success with champagne or grapefruit schnapps. The one who made you fail an exam because your 21st had to be counted. The one who held your hand after you’d been to the doctor’s. The one who convinced you to do things you’ll never regret (but will never tell your mother). Partner in crime. The one you’ve fought with and not spoken to and growled at and been grumpy with. The one who took you in, when you had no where else to go. The one who put up with you giving up smoking.
The one who always remembers the Vanity Fairs. The one who craps you out for being a bitch. The one who knows you’re kak at wedding stuff, but asked you to be a bridesmaid anyway.
The only one who knows about the mark.
So, M, if you ever pop in. You rock.
PS But if you put me a gingham frock, it’s over china!