Promised

This post is for a very old friend. I promised him at Christmas that I would send him the link for my blog and I haven't. It's possibly that I felt self conscious about him reading this- I'm not sure on reflection why. At one time he probably knew me better than anyone alive. Maybe it's my habit of compartmentalising my life and of being woeful at keeping in touch.......

I remember when I was younger I did nothing but talk, we talked about everything and anything, analysed things, speculated, read and discussed. My friend loved the first line in L'Etranger by Camus. How I knew so much about nihilism and philosophy then I'll never know- I've forgotten almost all of it. And I've never really found that talking again. When I see my oldest friends it's there but time and life and children all alter you. I miss that talking. 

We would lie on the pavement and look at the stars, honestly we did, and completely without irony. Long drives in our parents cars on a few pounds of petrol, those beautiful country roads are with me still. I was lucky very lucky to have had such connected relationships. 

That picture is me circa the times I'm talking about in this post- on an art trip to London. Taken by my friend Jacqui.