Nothing like a friend.

I made a slight exaggeration when I said that I had been totally abandoned by all my friends for the sunny pastures of University. In fact I am not alone in this world. There are several highly entertaining and delightful people who share my university-less predicament, who I shall now briefly outline in case I ever need to refer to them in the future.

I've always been very frank about the fact that I find boys a lot easier to get on with than other girls, and there are three individuals in particular who sustain my faith in men. The Raconteur, The Actor, and The Stud.

There is no one quite like The Raconteur. I don't think there's any other way to put it. He is eccentric, highly opinionated, incredibly noisy, and incredibly fucking funny. We met over two years ago on an acting course, and we still haven't run out of things to talk about. As Chatterback puts it, "You really have to meet the guy to get it..." He makes me laugh so hard I start crying, without even knowing what he's talking about. The two of us trek around London doing everything we can think of; rowing in Regents Park, small scale cinema trips, aquariums, pubs with skeletons in the window, and between our days out we have long phone conversations, picking the universe to pieces. He studies Latin and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of all the archaic sci-fi films to have ever been created; he very patiently talks me through highly complex plots, and has the grace not to complain when I can't remember a single detail of any of them.


The Actor is an old friend from primary school, who is pursuing a career in the dramatic arts. We get incredibly drunk together and have mawkish conversations about the cruel nature of love, only pausing to jive energetically around his kitchen. When we were nine years old I dropped a chair on his head from the top of a climbing frame, and he never lets me forget it. In fact, I sometimes wonder whether his Mongoose Thai Kickboxing is all part of some complicated get-you-back plot. The two of us are avid Black Books fans, and spend many evenings sprawled on the sofa watching the episodes and quoting them word for word.


The Stud is technically the guy I've known longest- since we were four years old in reception together- but we lost contact for about eight years. A couple of years ago he reappeared, and now joins me as I go ploughing through the London bar&club scene. We waste hours of valuable time happily insulting each other over social networking sites, and I listen to his stories of all the many, many ladies he has 'conquered'. The guy looks like, I quote My Mother here; 'A Gap Advert model', and he's in a band so he's basically sorted in that department. Lucky bastard is also living in his own place as of a few weeks ago, with three other girls. Haven't heard much from him recently, but I'm given to believe he's having fun.

And finally, there is The Medic, my token 'gal-pal'- incredibly bright, ceaselessly cheerful, and full of worldly wisdom. We both work as receptionists in GP surgeries and meet up to have long, enjoyable moans about how bad we are at our jobs. She advises me on what to do with my love life, promises me that eating sushi really isn't that difficult, and never misses an opportunity to tell me that I should definately marry The Raconteur. We go shopping for sparkly things and killer shoes, and I'd be at a loose end without her.

There are other people, and I love them all dearly, but these are the four I see the most of, and I love them best. Only joking. Or am I?

This morning at work, the computer system crashed, incapacitating the entire practice. Everyone was stressed out by this, except for one doctor who seemed to enjoy ringing the reception desk to drawl "send the next one in", in the manner of a sadistic KGB officer. When I am released for the afternoon it is cold and chucking down with rain outside. As I walk, fat men in heavyweight vehicles amuse themselves by driving close to the kerb and drenching me with sheets of filthy water. Soon I am soaked through, and my shoes are filled to the brim. I squelch home, dreaming of a blazing African sun and heat-blasted trees...

GOM has a Bentley in his posession for the weekend. He is like an overexcited child with a new toy.

Perhaps I should take advantage of his good mood and give him the final invoice for my trip.