Come*

Anyone of my age will remember the premise of the film ‘When Harry Met Sally’: that men and women can never be true friends: eg close, but no cigar. The fundamental argument is, I think, that men sine qua non are always trying to work out how they can get the woman into bed (other combinations are available).

It’s generally true that men and women do view friendships differently. I have ‘friends’ that I met at school and have not seen in five decades, but I know that if I were to meet them again tomorrow, we would remain friends. Male friendship is shallow, but long-lasting and by-and-large unaffected by what happens between the two of you. Female friendship is much deeper, but requires a good deal more husbandry. Without careful nurturing it may die. A fallout between men can be healed within minutes with a quick game of squash, cards, arm wrestling or competitive drinking, with women the healing process is much more complex and usually involves addressing the fundamental issue – something that men will never do. It is almost certainly true that, in terms of friendship, it would be better if we could all cease to identify as a specific gender.

I have always had lots of female friends, many of them way out of my league. Most of them, it must be said, far more likely to have a second slice of cake in a coffee shop than an orgasm (although, thinking about it, it may well be the same thing). If I had harboured ulterior motives I most certainly would very quickly have been advised of the undesirability of pursuing them. I learned quickly that I am a good friend – and pretty shite at most other things.

Friendship does take on an increased importance as you get older. Many of your existing friends will have pre-deceased you. Short of still being alive, you may have little in common with new friends, but you may come to increasingly rely on their friendship – and they yours. We all need someone to notice when the curtains have not been opened. We all need someone to bring the milk in now and then.

When you are in a long-term relationship you deliberately push all thoughts of being alone into the very back of your mind, but you know that, short of a plane crash, it is likely to lie in the future for one of you. You might think, ‘Ah well, I’ll be able to have chocolate for breakfast whenever I want it’, but you know that, in general, it is not going to be a good thing.

I don’t think that sexual attraction becomes any less of a thing as you get older, what changes is the conviction that even under ideal circumstances, you are capable of doing anything at all about it. Tea and cake becomes the overwhelming favourite. Someone to talk to, to share time with, becomes what it is all about. Human beings are not designed to be solitary – except, perhaps, in bed after a curry – we crave company. We want a part, however small, in the life of others.

In the end, we all want whatever it is that she’s having…

*Bear with me. It’s in there somewhere, work it out for yourself.

Think of me sweet darling when everything’s going bad
Think of me sweet darling every time you’re feeling sad
Think of me sweet darling every time you don’t come… Come – Fleetwood Mac (Buckingham/Heywood)

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

I work on the High Street. I see people holding hands every day: children, teenage lovers and elderly, been-together-a-lifetime couples. They make me smile. They fill my heart with joy, but equally they make me aware that from, let’s say mid twenties to late eighties, most of us do not hold hands other than with our children or grandchildren. There is a huge hand-holding void that lurks in our middle years like the Supermassive Black hole at the centre of our determinedly non-tactile galaxy, crushing this little human bond like super-gravity on thistledown. Hold hands on the street with your partner in your forties or fifties and the assumption will be that you have had/are having an affair – that you are trying to prove something to the outside world: ‘Look, we are still together. Nothing to see here.’ Hold hands with someone other than your spouse and you will be ‘trending’ on social media quicker than Elon Musk can change his mind.

Everybody smiles when the ‘snake’ of schoolchildren bustles by, hand in hand, all noise and excitement, gripping their line-buddy’s hand for comfort and security: sad and happy at the same time that they are not one of the chosen few at the back who get to hold the teacher’s hand. (N.B. It is a proven fact that all children under ten years of age have permanently sticky hands. Watch where they put them and you will know why.)

The furtive joy of holding hands with first boyfriend/girlfriend is something that will never be forgotten: for most, a happier memory than first sex. One of life’s few unregrettables. The pre-Facebook statement of Status: ‘Dating’. Hands remain locked through courtship and, perhaps, wedding, but after a brief honeymoon period it stops, other than for days out, holidays and trips to the midwife. A great, glaring void that takes us right through to old age when hand-holding becomes at least as much a physical need as an emotional one: two centres of gravity are better than one.

According to the man who knows everything at the other end of the internet (let’s call him Wiki), the main reason that humans hold hands is because it promotes a sense of security. In the western world it is linked to romance, but elsewhere this is not necessarily the case. (Whatever, I wouldn’t recommend it for same-sex couples in Riyadh.) It’s hard to imagine why we would turn our backs on such a simple comfort through the bulk of our adult lives. Are we really so confident that we no longer crave the closeness of human touch, so stupid that we can only view contact as sexual? Well, yes, I think we probably are.

So, I believe that it is time for us all to rise up, our chance to change the world. This is our campaign. Let’s realign our attitude to hand-holding: shifting it from a sign of romance to one of friendship. Why shouldn’t friends hold hands? It might mean that we have to come up with an alternative gesture for those romantically involved – identical tattoos, matching T-shirts, a shared hat, we’ll think of something – but surely it is not beyond the wit of humankind: we are, after all, going to defeat climate change without excess effort or hardship (aren’t we?) All we need to do is to align ourselves against the tide of stilted modern convention, all hold hands and sing ‘We shall not be moved’…

Tired, Tired, Tired…

Night

…Not physically, but mentally. Probably more correctly ‘tired of…’ Principally, I am tired of worry. Even more correctly, I am tired of worrying about the fact that the resolution of every problem merely leads, inexorably, onto a new one. This is a weariness of the spirit. The kind of weariness that tells you that thistledown has lost its magic, the Leprechaun has lost its gold, that the unicorn is lost at sea. I cannot sleep myself out of this. The little black-hearted gremlin will nibble away at me for a few more days and, if I am lucky, no-one else will even know he’s been around.

Now, I don’t want you to think that we’re talking proper depression here – on a scale of ‘Sea-Level’ to ‘Mariana Trench’ we’re probably talking trousers rolled up and paddling in the sea. This is the molehill of ennui alongside the Everest of depression, but sometimes I’m a mole and it seems like a big deal. I can’t blame any accident of fate for my current lassitude – I am hostage to circumstance, exactly the same as everybody else, and the possibility of unforeseen happenstance is never actually unforeseen, is it?

There is a pattern: the drip, drip, drip of bitter rainfall on an otherwise sunny day, leading to a leaden sky and a deluge that threatens every shred of equilibrium. The trick is to release the pressure before the levee breaks, and I do that by doing this – I write. At first I write bitterly. The humour might, at this time, find a home on certain YouTube channels, but for me, the only place it belongs is the bin. I never trust what I have written whilst in this malaise, but the shredder is catharsis and, almost inevitably, I find myself upright and balanced, if still wobblingly, upon the great tightrope of life. I have dangled from the cable from time to time, bounced down upon my wherewithal, but I have yet to have a catastrophic fall.

Now, I can, at this point, sense two sentiments wafting from you to me:
1. Why are you telling me this buffoon, what is it to do with me? And
2. You’re not being very funny at the minute, are you gloomy-pants? Bitterly or any other way.
Both perfectly valid contributions to the ‘conversation’.

So, let me explain why I mention this today. Well, I mention this today, because I actually wrote the above yesterday, before taking myself down the stairs for a restorative dram and an hour’s vegetating in front of the telly.

I watched Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse: Gone Fishing (BBC iplayer). I am no fisherman, but neither is Bob Mortimer. Paul Whitehouse is. They have both had major heart procedures and in the program, Paul Whitehouse takes Bob to some of his favourite fishing haunts as a way of getting him out and about. This is the flimsiest premise for a TV series you may ever have seen. It is a little about fishing, a little about health, a little about the glorious British countryside, and a lot about the friendship of two men ‘of a certain age’ approaching their latter years with more joy and optimism than you can shake a stick at. This program should be freely available on prescription for all men over sixty years of age. I have been captivated by the stunning scenery, amused by the stories, and ultimately reduced to tears of laughter by the ‘banter’ of two old friends. This program is a pure joy. For those of you who, like me, find yourself not so much in a trough of despond – more like a mucky puddle of torpor – I cannot recommend it highly enough.