Over the piles of half eaten fajitas and distressingly crusty hot-plates I peered around the table. Seated around it where 4 individuals who I consider to be my closest friends. We were slightly tipsy and perhaps a bit rowdy. As is traditional, lascivious details of exploits had been exchanged and greatly exaggerated. One individual was almost face-down in his plate and snoring gently. The rest were generating that warm atmosphere that only comes when old friends are indulging in banter.
At one point I drunkenly and embarrassingly made a toast. Today, you see, is the first anniversary of my unceremonious dumping. The day when my little ordered and suburban existance was forever blown apart.
Its often said that you don't realise who your friends are until you really need them. Be it keeping me company in Prague, or inviting me to the Isle of Man to watch the motorbikes, or simply just listening when I prattle on, all of my friends have been there when I needed them.
So this morning I'll raise this styrofoam cup of diet coke and lime (tastes a bit like washing-up liquid, in case you're interested) and say "Thanks" - to my friends (you know who you are) and to family.
Change is good.
