The politics of Glastonbury

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She’s wearing a pink tutu and a leather vest and her eyes are rolled all the way back in her head in a combination of mirth and something chemical. One foot, planted in a boot, planted in the mud, pulling, and the other stuck, deep. Her friends hover around her, working their fingers, working their jaws, a thousand strangers in the dusk, in the rancid reek of muck. A man behind her goes to his knees, yanks her boot free, plants it back on her foot. She thanks him, plods away. He stands, caked, wipes his hands on his shirt. He was already covered in mud. He doesn’t care.

Nobody cares, even though everyone cares. We’ve woken up to rain and hangovers and deflated mattresses, and whispered noises. Out, out, out. We’ve done something historical, or not done it, railed against it, but not loudly enough. 80% of the voters at Glastonbury voted remain, but that wasn’t enough. “He’s resigned.” “We’re out.”

Somebody has stolen £140 out of my backpack, which I left zipped in the tent, but by the door, with the money zipped in the smallest pocket, where everyone would have left it, the first place a person would look, because I was drunk and hungry and because we all do all the same things.

It’s raining and we move the camping chairs inside, in a circle, the Wellington boots kicked on their sides by the door. We are the festival-goers, three days in, three days wrecked. Eating meals in between dancing with pints, gathering beneath green flags flickering with an octopus, a yellow submarine, a walrus, a strawberry. Beatles-themed, you see.

We all live, now, in this muddy blue tent, railing against the guy ropes, sucking against the mud. We break Berocca into drink bottles. Later we’ll mix in vodka. The normal rules don’t apply here. Somewhere, out there, people sit in brick houses, in armchairs, sipping tea, and nodding their heads at their decisions. Get them out, they nod, make them leave.

We’ve left, left the politics behind. Last year there was no signal in this fenced-in silver circle that reeks of soil and silage and shit and throbs with grime, they say, but this year they’ve erected more poles to catch more signal, and this year there are just enough bars for us to know: we’ve left, we’re out, we’re gone. We’d message people on the outside, maybe, but what’s the point? It’s ours to deal with, later. For now, vodka in your Berocca, extra socks in your boots, tissues in your bumbag. I’d rather not have the signal, given the choice. Except for the weather forecast. Rain, obviously.

The people on the stages with the microphones feel a certain kind of responsibility as the clouds open and the crowds are drenched, lifting their hands and securing their hoods, lifting their feet so they don’t get stuck, stuck, stuck. “We’ll weather it together,” they croon, “we’ll fix it together,” between songs. But we’re not together, some of us stuck in the mud, and some of us elevated, and maybe that’s precisely what got us here in the first place.

There’s a girl in the crowd behind us with daisies in her hair, she might be eight years old in her pink raincoat. In the crowd, she looks like she’s floating, standing on a small folding stool, anchored to her spot by her father who clutches her, grinning into Adele’s first verses. He has a spare, and the shortest members of our parties suddenly find themselves up, out, higher, taller, up with the flags and the six foot men. “There’s so much more air up here!” Maybe that’s the point.

The world changes all the time, whether you’re wearing denim shorts and tiger ears, if there’s glitter in your beard and chemicals in your brain, if there’s vodka in your Berocca and if you haven’t sat down in a real chair since you can remember.

Jeremy Corbyn cancels his speech because the world is falling down, and when the world is falling down you don’t go to preach to a festival full of the converted. When the world is falling down, you bear down, go to your knees, form a last foundation. The bones of this festival are tent poles and caravans and canvas, skin and hair, crumbling and crushable, and there’s nothing here that’s worth any kind of permanent salvation. The work to be done is elsewhere, outside, inside marble houses and tall buildings made from old wood. Jeremy Corbyn, I suspect, would much rather be at Glastonbury.

I’m not, we’re not, the only ones who know how lucky we are. In a circus tent filled with children sitting on plastic bags, two tattooed men in black shorts climb each other and a rope, hand on hand, wrapped and clutched, set to fall, or fly. A woman in a red glittered bustier announces them, prancing across the stage, catching the light. Her tights are black and pigtails flick with her words. “I suggest,” she says, “that we just stay here! We voted remain! Why don’t we just remain? Why not?!” She clutches for claps and we do applaud, because we could do that. We could close it off, shut it down, eat pulled pork rolls and falafel until the end of our days. Adele could sing nightly, Coldplay serenade us to sleep. We have tents, sleeping bags. We have toilets. We have each other. Chris Martin, you have me. Beck, are you OK? Do you need some gum?

Sitting in that tent-circle with rain spitting against the plastic, a few hours since the votes were counted and done and everything went, as they say, to shit, they give me – some of them strangers – £10 each, one by one, none holding back until I have in my lap a pile of crushed bills, and all my stolen money back. Someone out there has my neatly folded notes, but he doesn’t have what I have.

We have, for the next couple of days, certainty, because here, behind the silver fence, we know what to expect. Piss-smeared seats and mud-tumbles, £5 sweat-warm beers and rain, rain, rain. Spitting on footpaths and swearing into the sky, bright lights and old smells and base thuds like quick hearts. Arseholes and idiots and awkwardness and theft. Constipation and ugliness.

So much shit. There is so much shit.

10 Things That the “Double Blue Tick” On WhatsApp Might Mean

  1. They’ve left their phone unlocked and their brand-new Scottish fold kitten has walked across the screen, opening WhatsApp and making it look like they’ve seen your message when actually they’re busy downstairs, making an edgy but affectionate collage of what your breasts look like when you’re sleeping.
  2. This is all a grand-scale social experiment instigated by a think-tank comprised of Russell Brand, Ariana Grande and someone with very hurt feelings from high school to see just how much provocation it takes before we all begin to think that actually The Hunger Games might be a good idea, and that actually, come to think of it, we know someone who might make a good contestant.
  3. Their mischievous yet adorable yet high-achieving younger sister has borrowed their phone for the purpose of taking selfies of the underside of their chin, and is now perusing their phone for indicting emails and sex texts. So SHE was the one who read your message about the way you like how his farts smell on your skin. Thank goodness.
  4. A burglar has BROKEN INTO THEIR HOUSE and STOLEN THEIR PHONE and is currently using WhatsApp to message their partner-in-crime with the missive “Idiot left window open; stole phone + two frozen pizzas + copy of 50 Shades; meet you in 10 mins”.
  5. iOs 8.
  6. The Babadook.
  7. Not sure, but it definitely has something to do with Gone Girl.
  8. They opened your message but then accidentally flushed the phone down the toilet and they are currently engaged in a fearsome battle involving a hairbrush and a long piece of floss to get it back out, because reading, and responding to, your message is the only thing they can think about. Maybe for the rest of their LIFE.
  9. Act of God.
  10. They read your message, but haven’t responded to it yet, because sometimes people have other things occupying their brains – like you, you’re thinking of a bunch of other things, like tomorrow’s lunch and your mother’s health and whether you can wear these tights for another day without washing them, because you have better things to do than obsess over the reading of a message DON’T YOU!?

I’m a Clean Person But I Still Managed to Get Bedbugs (And a Rat)

Originally published here.

My name is Scarlett Cayford and I had bedbugs.

They’ve been gone from my life for over a year now, those tiny lentil-shaped embodiments of horror and of filth, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over the fear they inspired in me. Every time I feel an itch, or am bitten by a mosquito, I feel it rise in me again. Impossibly tiny; impossibly awful.

I live in London and that means that I share my space with all manner of small scurrying things. As I stand behind the yellow line in the hot Underground station, mice move beneath the tracks. If I’m late walking home, the yellow eyes of urban foxes follow me. Most recently, my lovely, clean, wonderful flat was invaded by a rat, who was dispatched with only when he got a paw stuck in a trap and got caught when he tried to escape through the dishwasher. It was not a nice experience for me, my housemates, or the rat whom I was not allowed to name on account of the fact that we had to kill him.

But by far the worst of my experiences was with the insidious immortal life form that is the bedbug, which invaded my first flat in North London after I’d been living there for six months.

There are any number of ways you can get bedbugs. Hotel rooms are the obvious ones, but you could pick them up by standing too close to an unfortunate stranger on the bus. I suspect our home invaders were brought in by a new couple who moved in at about the same time, who were French, quiet and lovely but exist only in my memory as The Carriers.

I noticed it before my boyfriend did, because I am allergic to anything that bites me, except for him, and what showed up in the form of small red dots on his skin was huge red welts on mine. There were paths of bites down my neck and across my arms, maddeningly itchy and tenacious. Despite my courageous attempts not to scratch, they stayed for weeks, between my fingers and even on my palms, forcing me into long sleeves and gloves.

There aren’t the same laws in place here as there are in NYC, and so I did not involve my landlord but battled them alone, armed with rubbing alcohol and lavender oil. New to London, neither of us could afford the costs of a professional exterminator.

I sprayed down the mattress and the linens, until our room reeked of a booze-hungry grandmother. I went to bed each evening in socks, leggings, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a scarf, slathered in oil and bitterly angry. I love sleeping; I love bed, and to have it infested by something upset me beyond reason. My one place of retreat was a battleground, and I was losing.

But I told no one –- not my other flatmates, not my friends. Because quite apart from the anger was the shame, akin to being an 8-year-old with head lice, the certainty that despite all evidence to contrary, the bugs had moved in because I was dirty. If people asked about the bites on my hands, I said I’d been sitting in the park and was attacked by mosquitoes. I washed everything I owned on the hottest setting properly. I bagged up my clothes. I touched people less. I felt diseased and disgusting.

We got rid of them in the end by sacrificing our bed. Yep, after nearly a month of battling bugs to no avail, my boyfriend and I snapped our bed in the middle, then went to the landlord citing ordinary wear and tear and got the bed replaced. (In the UK, loads of apartments are rented furnished. Ours came with the big furniture.) To this day he probably just thinks we’re energetically kinky in the sack. We took the old bed to the skip, threw out all our linens, washed everything that could fit in the washing machine and crossed our fingers.

We were lucky -– it worked. The bugs were gone and my existing bites healed -– and also scarred. I’d never been more relieved in my whole life. I’m still scared of hotels. And, perhaps unreasonably, French people.

But I still don’t really understand why I felt the way I did. It might be because the whole incident was genuinely, literally scarring. At one point I had upwards of 50 bites and felt repulsive, hot and ill. No matter how innocent the host might be, there’s no ignoring the fact that showing that kind of disfigurement, even to people who like you, opens you to judgment.

And people are scared of bedbugs, as they should be. I didn’t want to be Bedbug Girl. I didn’t want to be The Carrier. So even though it might have been easier to ask for help, especially in a time where nearly everybody has suffered from them at some point, I suffered in silence and waited it out. Shame exists in so many forms, but it seems absurd that I was so utterly embarrassed by something that was beyond my control.

But that’s bedbugs for you — a curse that gets you on a psychological as well as a physical level. I hope never, ever to go through it again. As I write this, I’m lying on my bed. When I finish it, I’ll inspect the seams of the mattress. You should too.

My Kingdom For A Gimmick

We live in a marvelous-type world, where there are nine thousand different ways to cook chicken and you can buy every single one of them for under a fiver. We live in a confusing world, where everything you want, or need, or some combination of the two, is available to you from one hundred different outlets, all within walking distance.

What this means for someone like me, with some small bits of disposable income and disposable time, with a chronic inability to make up my mind and a predilection for the nearest, shiniest thing, is that the best way of selling something to me is to couple it with a gimmick.

Want me to buy your food? Make me eat it in pitch blackness. Make me shell out fifty quid for something I won’t see until it comes out the other end the next day. Make a short man in dark glasses guide me to my table. Make sure he spills my wine, just a little bit.  Make me smear my fingers across my plate, identify the bits of meat beneath my fingernails as crab. Tell me afterwards that I ate crocodile and springbok. Ensure that I know that it could have been the fingers of babies, the heart of my mother, and I’d never be the wiser.

Want to me to stay in your hotel? Make it a love hotel, with a garish sign, next to a sushi bar in an alleyway that smells of fish. Make my room classroom-themed, so I can have sex on the same kinds of desks my students sit at every day. Put a locker in the corner and lay out a plaid skirt on the bed. Cherry-flavoured lubricant isn’t exactly on-theme but I won’t complain if it’s free. I’ll still enjoy writing crude messages on the blackboard with the chalk I hate.

Want me to go to your cinema? Best make it a multi-sensory cinematic experience (yes, really). Give me a little cardboard tray with numbered pottles that sync, in the form of dramatic flashing digits, with events onscreen. I want to eat spun sugar studded with black pudding at the very moment that shard of glass enters Mercutio’s body. I want to drink poison with Romeo. I want to eat Juliet’s heart. I didn’t know that I wanted this before, but I do.

Want me to drink your cocktail? Use words like “infused”. Turn it upside down. Freeze it. Heat it. Dance naked around it and filter it with your eyelashes. Fill it with things like rosemary, which isn’t drinkable and is therefore confusing. Infuse my drink with rosemary smoke, so that I choke as I drink, so that my insides melt, so that I’m convinced that this is the best thing I have tasted, simply because I have never tasted anything like it before, even though it tastes terrible. If you can serve it to me in a birdcage, so much the better.

Want me to go to your party? Don’t have it in a bar. Don’t have it in a house. I’ve been in many; I have my own. No – let us celebrate whatever needs celebrating in the abandoned train tunnels under Waterloo station, so that brackish water drips into my drink. Make a forest of pine-trees; create an underground lake complete with flat-bottomed boats – make me row it after several glasses of bad white wine so that I nearly drown in water up to my knee. I want to be cold. I want to be confused. I think I want to be a train.

Want me to buy your lipstick? It’s not enough that the shades are beautiful, that they suit me, that your prices are reasonable. There are so many for me to choose from in this reeling rainbow, how could I possibly know that yours is better? Make a star sign her name to it. Convince me that this is how they became famous, this one slash of colour. I need the smack of celebrity about it, I want Rihanna on my face, Lady Gaga smeared across my lips. I want to look like Maleficent. I want to be Angeline Jolie. This one, the red one, does it taste like Brad Pitt?

Want me to run your 10k race, the expensive one, when there are so many others for less, for charity, when I could run that distance for free in the park near my home? Give me a DJ. Give me smoky tunnels of flashing lights to run through, so that I might forget that I can’t breathe. Don’t give me a medal at the end – give me a dainty necklace in rose gold engraved with a bird. I can fly. I am a bird. I think I’m going to vomit.

I’m going to have to get married in space, and be buried in a clear Perspex box suspended across the Thames. I’ll live my life wearing clothes constructed of real pieces of fruit and used condoms. I’ll breathe cinnamon-scented air that makes me choke and have live grass sewn into my scalp in lieu of hair. I can’t do anything normal anymore. Roast meals with my family, a chick flick, a walk in the park. What’s the point? I’ve done it before.

On Becoming a Football Fan

My boyfriend is a football fan, the kind of fan who isn’t sure where football ends and he begins. He can recite the statistics of players who became irrelevant long before he was born; knows his own team like he knows his family. “Wolves” he says to me, not “The Wolves”, shaking his head as if I’ve forgotten his mother’s name. His mother’s name is Alison.

My cousin, who lives in Bristol is an Arsenal fan. Sometimes, he says, he is taken for a glory supporter, someone tired of chancing their luck on a down-trodden local, and hitching their wagon to a million pound star. “Fair enough”, I say, to a shaking head. He is a legitimate Arsenal fan he says, because I was born in Camden. My birthplace is his ticket into Arsene Wenger’s coterie. “Isn’t that cheating? Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?” No.

I am an Arsenal fan. It happened accidentally. We moved to London, to Finsbury Park, where it seemed like every day the station would choke with Gunners, loud in red and white, and LOUD. Once, on my way to the gym, walking past a pub, three of them picked me up and ran the 20 meters to the gym entrance, and deposited me by the door. “At least they didn’t drop you”. And I am grateful for that, I guess? I walked around Emirates stadium on a sunny day, admired the shiny husk of it – I’ll probably never be able to afford to go inside.

Game days are days when the carriages of the Piccadilly line become a crush of red, of small boys in uniform and men guarding them with proud bellies. The rule that people don’t talk to each other on the tube doesn’t apply when you’re all wearing the same colour. They talk over my head, over the earphones I wear even when I’m not playing music, about odds and injuries. They pile off the tube at Finsbury Park and Archway. The Arsenal stop is closed to them, too full.

People start having conversations with me about football, and I don’t know why. I understand gap-fill conversations, about my hair colour and my accent and what I do for a living – but when did I become someone whose very aspect belied their interest in football? Maybe it’s the scarf that’s appeared about my shoulders, the red and white crisp and clear. Maybe it’s the way I nod with authority when the conversation turns to Arsenal. Theo Walcott. Nod. Mezut Ozil. Nod. Giroud, Ramsey, Podolski. Yes.

There are people who shake their heads when I tell them that I am an Arsenal supporter, even when I tell them that I was born in Camden. “You’ll be disappointed,” they say, and I am. “Arsenal never win anything”.

When Arsenal won the FA Cup I was in a sports bar, drinking ale with one old friend, one new friend, one boyfriend and two flat mates. The man behind me leaned over. “Do you know what’s going on?” “Almost never”. I could see my boyfriend watching, as this man touched my shoulder and smiled into my face and then asked “Where’s your accent from?”

His girlfriend’s dad lives in Christchurch, he explained. He moved there ten years ago, and could not be persuaded to move on post-earthquake. This man with strange teeth, and absolutely no interest in the football, had visited Christchurch with his girlfriend in March. “There’s nothing there. There’s no people”. I nodded. “I didn’t think it looked like Lord Of The Rings, really”. I shook my head. There are no shopping malls made of shipping containers in Lord Of The Rings, no flooded ruins filled with floating plastic ducks, no raked green squares where buildings stood. Aaron Ramsey scored the winning goal and I turned back around.

The whistle blows and I hold up my scarf. My new friend high fives me, then grasps my fingers in his sweaty palm. “Congratulations,” he says, “what are you going to do now?”

On Moving

As a slightly weird, overly well-read child growing up in New Zealand, I was about eleven when I realized that I wanted to live somewhere else. Clutching my little red British passport, I realized I could.

I can’t really pinpoint where it came from. It might be from bullying or not being good at sport, or not really having the competitive edge that honed my whole family. It might be from my British immigrant mother, who pined, palpably, for museums and history and old friends. It might have been Enid Blyton. All knew was, after university I was out of there.

I left for Japan less than one month after graduating from my law degree without much in the way of a backwards look. I had a family home that I could pile all my books and abandoned notes into and a family who I knew would travel to see me, so boarding the plane didn’t feel as momentous as it could have. Maybe more to the point, I had a devoted boyfriend of four years who was ready to follow me, even though I had savings and a job and security and he had none of the above. I sat on the plane and watched the entire first season of Glee. I thought “I’ll watch the second on the way back”. And then I realized I wasn’t coming back.

I spent my first three weeks in Japan without him, lying in my underwear in my first apartment without flatmates, in the 30-degree heat, listening to the crows. I went to the supermarket and wandered down aisles of kimchi and brown sauce in brown bottles, then returned to my house with beer and Frosties. Japan was inimitably, amazingly foreign, and nothing prepared me for the sensation of having that foreign-ness turned back upon me in the form of thousands of pairs of confused, interested and hostile eyes. I had thought, before arriving, that I was toying with the idea of Japan, but I was the toy. Boyfriend arrived, my job started, I settled in. I made some friends – very few Japanese people – I took lessons in the language, I diversified in the supermarket. I made it my home.

Japan isn’t a country that accepts foreigners easily. I loved it there; I couldn’t love it more, but I had an expiry date. It didn’t come up when the earthquake struck Tohoku and hundreds of messages from people flooded in, convinced I was among the thousands of dead. It didn’t come up when someone stole my bicycle or when I accidentally ate mushroom and prawn custard, or any one of the tens of times I slipped over on the ice. It didn’t happen when my boyfriend broke up with me, and left.

It happened when I realized that two years of teaching was enough for me – that for me, the learning I was experiencing just by living wasn’t enough. It happened when I looked at my bank account and realized that I could handle a few months of unemployment in my holy grail, London. And yeah, it happened when I got a British boyfriend.

I live in London now – I’ve been here for nearly two years. Moving here proved more of a shock than Japan ever was, because it was so familiar, so culturally like my homeland, and because I was so, so lonely. In a city of millions of people who could talk to me, so few of them wanted to. I found a job without difficulty, and a place to live, but friends came slowly. Now, settled, with friends of my own and suburbs I know, I feel at home.

When I write it down, I know how it looks – these aren’t the movements of an intrepid traveller. Breaking it down, where the hell is the bravery in moving across the world when you do it with someone who would move worlds for you? Leaving people and places behind hurts less when you bring someone you love with you, even if that love, and that person, changes. But it still hurts. And parts of it still feel brave. The realization that I will never again know the feeling of being in a room with everyone I love is hard. It’s the hardest thing I have to deal with, and I have to re-swallow it daily, and I know that makes me lucky, ultimately.

Nowadays, I think I know where I belong, but I’m not sure. Everything I know is spread across three continents, in almost even proportions. And I’m no nomad – a nomad is someone who can pack up and leave and create a whole new life wherever they are. I’ve never completely managed the packing up part. I’ve left pieces all over the place.

On Making Friends – the more difficult side of dating

Originally published here.

 

Here is something that Cosmo does not want to you know: getting a boyfriend is not all that difficult. If you sincerely want a beard-face of your very own, all you need to do is brush your hair, leave the house, act interested in sports /travel/Skyrim/pina coladas/getting caught in the rain, and then compromise on most of your standards. BAM! Boyfriend. Go forth and shack up, you lucky thing. A far harder goal to accomplish? Making new friends, post school-mandated socialisation.

 

Nobody’s going to lock you in a classroom filled with like-minded people of a similar age, ever again. Once you’re earning your own money and making it in the big bad world all on your adult lonesome, making that connection gets infinitely trickier.

 

One way to avoid facing this truth? Stay in the city you grew up in. Keep your high school friends as your only friends. You don’t need anyone else – they’re the ones who studied calculus and Catcher in the Rye with you, who saw you vomit Smirnoff under a pool table. They knew you pre-puberty. Stick with them, in a little blissful bubble, failing to acknowledge that you’re not the same people you were ten years ago. You can do that, if you want. It might even be quite nice. It’s certainly the easier route.

 

Because the other option – risking being on your own – really sucks. I’ve moved countries twice in two years, each time leaving behind all the people I would trust to pass me tampons under bathroom doors. It’s the most heart-breaking thing in the world, making a friend only to leave them – worse still when green cards and oceans mean you might never see each other, properly and frequently, again. Some might say that the age of social media has made these kinds of relationships easier, but I call B.S. I want to see pictures of my best friend hanging out on the beach with people who look a-bit-like-me-but-more-interesting like I want to rub wasabi into my eye sockets.

 

With the annoying adult realisation that you really should be glad that they’ve made new friends – because you like them, goddammit – comes the thought that perhaps there might be others, like you, wishing for a pal. Perhaps they want one with red hair. Who likes Donna Tartt and cheap shoes and the smell of MAC foundation. But how to find them?

This is the dating advice that I need. This is the handbook that doesn’t exist. So You’re Twenty-Six and Lonely – A Self-Help Book For Those Without Lady-Friends To Pass Them Tampons Under Doors. Why hasn’t this been written?

 

I know why. Because making friends is more complicated than finding a partner. Because you can’t let your genitals do the talking, because you can’t chat each other up in a bar, because you’re shy, because there are no friendship pick-up lines, because we’re all so afraid of looking stupid that we’ve all stopped looking.

And once you’ve decided to take the leap, you can’t even repurpose your years of dating do’s and don’ts, because making new friends requires totally different tactics to nailing down a partner.

 

For example, it is acceptable – nay important – to look desperate. Looking as inscrutable as a brick wall that may or may not hide Diagon Alley isn’t going to endear you to strangers. So make it clear that you haven’t had a decent conversation about Orange is The New Black or the attractive lift operator in Covent Garden in over a month, and you’re deteriorating. Cast longing glances at prospective pals. Laugh loudly, and too long. Compliment them frequently. Recommend things. Stroke them when they’re not looking (don’t do that).

 

It is also likely that you’ll need to make the first move. After all, most singletons know they’re single – not everyone knows they’re open to new friends. None of this fannying about casting coy glances, hoping for invitations. Ask for their number, text them, ask them out for a drink. A walk. Clay-pigeon-shooting. Make plans, any plans – just make it happen. The ball is in your court, and have you ever tried to play tennis by yourself?

If it sounds stupid then that’s because it’s not a perfect formula. There is no friendship equation. But life is too short to be lonesome and if you meet someone who you’d want to cook your favourite dinner for and not take their pants off afterwards, then why not try? Hitch up those pleather trousers and open up, my little walnut. I am testament to the fact that your trials will not be in vain – my efforts have resulted in friend dates involving lipstick, Stilton hollandaise and rather too long spent casting The Goldfinch for film. And you want to be my friend now, don’t you? Just a little bit. Just to see how it feels.

 

It’s worth the effort. It’s worth the occasional embarrassment. Friendship, once you have it, is worth all the time spent looking – and once forged, it feels effortless. There’s no limit to how many friends you can have, so keep the old ones – you’ll have friends all over the place. More friends than you can count! You’ll break Facebook, you’ll have so many friends! And you’ll never have to fetch your own feminine hygiene products again, if you don’t want to.