Posted by Tania Kindersley.
To my regular readers: please forgive me. I am going to use the blog for a little bit of self-indulgence.
My old friend Sophie lives all the way out in Santa Monica, and she's had a hell of a year, and I want to send her out a big, fat, vulgar dose of love. Sometimes an email just won't do it. For some reason, this needs to be nailed up on the wall.
So, Soph, this is for you:
Remember when we first met, in the dark, subterranean bar of Brasenose? (What the hell were we doing in Brasenose?)
Remember Commend, Commend?
Remember the parties in the Cathedral Gardens?
Remember our intemperate love for Mr Everett?
Remember Dreamy and the Ducklings?
Remember the summer that I refused to take off this hat?
Remember when we had finals fever so badly we would get in the car and drive round and round the ring road, singing Oh What A Night at full volume?
Remember the first flat-share, and how I made you watch The Big Chill and High Society over and over?
Remember when we drank 1928 Armagnac and ate four courses in that restaurant in Prague in the shadow of Charles Bridge?
Remember the mornings in Sausalito, and the visit to Napa, and the time we drove up to Big Sur?
Remember the green velvet jacket that I wore that whole trip?
Remember all the boys that made us cry?
Remember all the boys that made us laugh?
Remember the time we went to Connemara and sat on the sand at Dog's Bay, and ate stuffed mussels at O'Dowd's, and I had a freak-out in that hotel restaurant because it was far too posh, and you had to take me to the pub and feed me Guinness until I could speak again?
Remember when you came to Hay, and we met Terence, and dear Roger madly went swimming in the river?
Remember that sweet lunch in the tiny white house near Deal, when you looked so glamorous in your California shades?
Remember when I quoted Yeats at your wedding to the Lovely R? One man loved the pilgrim soul in you.
Remember when we took little Z boating on Lake Windermere in the pouring rain?
Remember last summer, when both the children sat under the Scots Pines, and we had tea on the lawn and sang songs while Tara played the guitar?
That's twenty-five years, baby.
That's what it's all about.
Sometimes, it seems like it's all tunnel, but I know there is a light.
You are my most beloved friend, and this is the face I think of when I think of you:
Remember the Good Times.
And now, for listeners joining us from Long Wave, normal service will resume.