There is nothing like sitting in bed in the early morning, with a pot of Earl Grey Supreme, chatting to girlfriends on the phone. I was happily doing just this when the doorbell rang. Short expletive at the prospects of being doorstepped by local politicos or evangelists.
What a faff it was to haul myself into an upright position, stick the now compressed heart shaped cushion, made by the local WI and supplied by the NHS, under my arm, and totter off downstairs to the door. Halfway down the stairs the doorbell rang again. “Yes yes, I’m on my way.”
On the doorstep was a member of the A Team, that much treasured WhatsApp group of girlfriends charged with seeing me through the Big C. “I thought you were coming for lunch,” I mumbled.
“I did say 10.30. I’ve got to go to London later.”
It was all bonus from my point of view. I went off to have a shower and the A Team headed for the kitchen where she made free with vases, in order to make the very best of the beautiful cut flowers from her garden.
We spent the morning happily chatting about the grandchildren. Hers can speak Italian and English and interchange between the two. Mine is a boy and likes to talk about poo.
The doorbell rang again. From the open door blasted the theme tune from the Archers. (That’s the old tune not the new one.) I knew exactly who that was and rolled over on the sofa in a bid for a bit of momentum in order to get to my feet.
There was the FF (former flatmate) and before we knew it, we were hugging and crying and rejoicing, that I am, more or less, in one piece, and she is in my kitchen, having not exactly lied her way through acres of messaging about being stuck in a train tunnel, but not exactly leading me to believe she was in a train racing towards me. In the many joys and trials of our friendship I remember when she was where I am now. That only deepens our ties.
The FF is impressed by the lunch and says so. She broadcasts her appreciation of her fellow A Teamers on the Whattsapp group, along with a critique of the inside of my fridge, which she alleges horrible things about. When my fellow Granny departs the FF sets about fridge renovation.
On the table is an enormous pile of fridge contents. She can’t imagine why so much of what I treasure has survived so long past its sell by date. “The sniff test. “ I’m bullish on this point, but accept that there may be some preserved lemons that are no longer fit for purpose. We compromise and feeling she has luck on her side, she chances her arm. I run out of puff watch the bin fill up.
Once done, she makes a short video of the inside of the fridge and broadcasts it to the A Team, along with a biting critique of what she describes as the European Vegetable Mountain that is sitting on top of the cooker. She asserts it will never fit back into the now sparkling fridge. I protest that it’s all in the angle she chose to film from. She ignores me and takes the rubbish out.
By teatime I can hardly keep my eyes open and make another, less energetic, bid to roll off the sofa for some kind of embrace and a bit of a blub. Whatever the humiliations of my personal habits being revealed to an unsuspecting A Team, love and friendship trumps the revelation that I am a fridge slut.
