Sunday 31 January 2010

A trip to Rosedale.

There is a chapter in that most ubiquitous of "self-help" books, "Men are from a, Women are from Venus" entitled "Women Talk and Men Go To Their Caves"

Now I freely admit to never having read the book, but for some reason the fact that this chapter exists sticks in my memory.

And it is, I believe, a universal truth.

When men are working through "Stuff" they get all quiet and insular and like bears, they hibernate until they're ready to come out.


We talk.

We head off with our nearest and dearest besties and talk. And rave. And plot. And scheme. And talk. And bitch.



And the girls would never dream of offering solutions. They just sit and listen, and refill your glass, and pass you the tissues and tell you "it's not because you're fat" and refill your glass and hold you while tears trickle down your face.

And if your friends are really all they are meant to be, all they should be after 30 or so years of supporting each other through marriages (good and bad), births (good and bad), cheap tawdry one-nighters (good and bad), they know what you'll need to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, hoik up your Big Girl's Boggers and SUCK IT UP, TIGER.

For some women it's chocolate. For some it's wine. For some it's a new man, for some it's a day spa.

For me, well, you can probably guess.

It's food.

Herbs still fresh and warm from Tee's garden. Her idea of being one of my oldest friends?

"I bought them so you could cook for us"

Oh Goddess, does that girl know me!!

Chicken in Pajamas at the Rosedale Pub, courtesy of Sue. Good, hearty country pub fare. No pretentious twattage, no bullshit. Just food and non-judgemental company.

Her idea of being one of my oldest friends?

"come to my house and just be."

It's not Chicken Soup that nurtures a Soul, it's chicken parma and a pot, and the deep, abiding laughter of someone you've known more than 30 years.

And then to come home to Widdie, who doesn't bother to bring anything but the main ingredient because "I know you'd have everything else I need", and smoked salmon roulades, to talk about being mad old cat ladies together.

Her idea of being one of my oldest friends?

Nodding in ALL the right places.

In 2010, make sure you forget the crap chain emails, and the bullshit forwarded Face Crack status update, and remeber to tell your 'festy besties" that Women Talk, and that is what nourishes our souls.


Anonymous said...

love this and totally concur after a long night talking with some of my festy besties. love you big and happy to talk anytime you wanna. xxx


Hannah said...

Oh yes yes yes. I may not be quite at the point of having friends of 30 years, but I agree with all my heart that the ones to hold onto are those with whom you can talk, eat, and just "be", feeling safe and comfortable the whole time.

And a good pinch of laughter never hurts, either!

frogpondsrock said...

In the first couple of weeks after my Mum died my bestie Tanni, rang me every single day and let me sob over the phone to her. She nagged me into leaving the house and making the trek down to her place where she cooked me Osso Buco with Milanese risotto and sent me home with a basket of her preserves, chocolates and red frogs. I love that woman.

Banjywon said...

Ahh my Darling Dazzle - you are always welcome to come to my place and just "be" - that is what we do best! I am truly blessed with my friends and treasure them intensly. Love you!

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