Haven't been posting much, here or anywhere else recently, as my head and diary has been filled with stuff to do with my new appointment. But at the beginning of this month Sally and I got away for a long weekend to meet up in an old country house outside Ludlow with a large group of old friends from our Edinburgh University theatre days, in order to celebrate the 60th birthdays of some of our number. Due to the fabulous organisational and catering skills of a small core group we had an amazing time including a hilarious awards dinner on the Saturday night for which we were encouraged to "dress up". A number of the men baulked at it being a "black tie" affair, with one noting that black tie us strictly "work-wear" for him. Some of those at the weekend had reconnected with the wider group because of a 40th Anniversary of the opening of the Bedlam Theatre, just before the onset of covid, and in advance of that I unearthed a couple of my old Bedlam fringe T-shirts, and was astounded to find they still fitted, although the “fat-cat” emblem on the front was somewhat fatter than before. That was probably at the back of my mind as I sat in the corner of the lounge in Ludlow scribbling a few thoughts as lots of conversations went on around me... and those thoughts continued to percolate until today...
Meeting up with old friends,
is like putting on clothes
that have been locked in a
suitcase since student days,
lugged unopened from place
to place, stashed beneath beds
in myriad spare rooms.
Will they still fit or suit?
So imagine the joy
when they do indeed, though
perhaps slightly more snug,
the smoky aroma
of far off days ling’ring.
A trick of memory,
firing dormant neurons -
an organic Tardis?
No barren nostalgia
for days that will never
be again, if they were
before, but such a joy
to find that those old clothes
have magically grown,
gaining golden threads and
myriad silk patches.
Such clothes, uncommonly
comfortable, and yet
so richly embroidered
should not be returned to
the wardrobe or worse still,
consigned again to the
sterile forgetfulness
of storage beneath beds.
We may return to work-
wear, be that suit, hi-viz
and hard hat, jacket, or
polo shirt, or black tie,
or clerical collar,
but beneath we should wear
such old friendships as a
permanent second skin.
A skin with the wrinkles
of age, much mirth and tears;
blemishes and scars from
exposure to sunshine
and multiple ventures;
the odd (some very odd)
tattoo and some piercings -
with a few unchosen.
Such skin continues to
keep out rain, soak up sun,
and without the help of
constricting Lycra, hold
almost everything in,
whilst crinkling with laughter,
tingling at touch, as well
as feeling warmth and cold.
We are not cold-blooded
snakes and so, like skin, such
friendships, true friendships, can
never be sloughed off whole,
or given away to
a second-hand shop with
dog-eared books and ugly
objets no-one would want.
Instead they become part
of who we are, even
when that friend is no more,
and cannot be embraced,
except in profoundly
thankful memory, when
their scent still pervades the
room after they have left.
Selah
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