I met an old friend yesterday. She's one of those friends, the ones you've done things with that you know you'll never do again, and you probably shouldn't have done, ever.
This could include, for example, a very public boob-flashing phase in small-town nightclubs, an orange-bacardi-breezer-in-a-pint-glass-with-a-triple-bacardi-on-top drinking phase (there may be a causal link between the two phases) and an episode of going off to the Greek Islands together with no money.
The Greek experience in particular, is to be recommended in terms of bonding. You're not really friends with someone until you have a knock-down fight in a supermarket in Naxos over whether to spend your last few drachmas on a tub of Philadelphia or a tomato.
My friend lives in Ireland now, so I see her only once a year. We go for a long walk, usually, and congratulate ourselves on being able to buy as much Philadelphia as we like and on no longer having the urge to pull our tops up in public. I never really think about how old I am until I remember how she used to dress when I met her: pink crop top, combat pants, hair in bunches. Hard to believe I was not, in fact, friends with Emma Bunton. But the Baby Spice look was all the go then, and it's not like I can talk either.
This was 1997 and I was rocking a bindi.
