Day eight (again)

Okay, this is strange. As I write this, there is someone else in the house (other than the cats). My friend Catherine is here until tomorrow, but this is a work day for her, so she is sitting in the diningroom at her computer and I am sitting here at my desk.

She has been here since Friday evening and it has been wonderful. Favourite walks, favourite meals, favourite wines, favourite music and long conversations about everything on earth (more or less). Here’s the best part, the greatest thing about an old and dear friend: If you ask her, she will tickle your back.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before on at least one occasion: it’s interesting the things you miss when you have resolved yourself to being alone for the rest of your life. Sex? Yes, well, of course that would be lovely, but the return of passion really does feel like a pipe dream. No, it’s the thought of no one ever holding your hand again during a walk at the beach, no one ever tickling your back again.

The latter has been on my mind lately. Whatever faults Mike may have had, he was a champion back tickler. (Could that really be the reason I stayed for as long as I did?) In just over two months it will be six years since Mike died. (Blimey, that’s hard to believe.) Nearly six years without a back tickle. Until Friday night. And Saturday night. And last night. I’m stocking up. Catherine is a very good back tickler.

If we are fortunate we will have in our lives a friend to whom we can say absolutely anything. If we are very fortunate indeed we will have more than one. Catherine is one of mine, like the other, seen too infrequently, but, wow, how fabulous it is when she is around.

Some people have commented (some with more than a little awe) about how open and honest I have been in these entries. I have tried to be. That’s part of the process, isn’t it? Get shit out in the sunlight and hope the light will disinfect it. Better out than in.

But there’s always something, isn’t there? At least one thing that, once you know you’re not just launching words into the ether to be stumbled across by strangers (or not), once you know there are people you actually know reading the words you are writing, something that you simply cannot put out there for love nor money. Much better in than out.

And that’s why we could not function without those extra special friends. Because, with or without the aid of a couple of glasses of fine wine, the unspeakable can be spoken.

Thank heavens for friends.

Thank heavens for Catherine.