I’ve got a new friend. I’m well aware I sound like a five-year-old reporting that, and this is exactly the point: it turns out making friends as an adult is absolutely excruciating. I like this person so much, and have found the whole business of welcoming someone into my fold quite life-affirming, but it’s almost not worth it for the amount of anxiety it has provoked. This is the closest to dating that boring old smug marrieds like me get, and I have never questioned my every thought, action and WhatsApp message more. Thank God she has her blue ticks on, or I’d probably be having sleepless nights.
I met her, just like the romcoms promise, when I’d stopped looking. Like, stopped decades ago. My roster was full; I didn’t have time to hang out with the friends I already had, let alone complicating matters by adding another to the mix. It happened unexpectedly, accidentally, in a waiting room for a kids’ activity – a conversation started over my head about a celebrity, and she made an off-the-cuff, funny, sweary comment. It was love at first slight.
