I met my oldest friend when we were seven years old. I don’t know what it was that drew us together, but right from the start we had much in common. We certainly shared a vivid imagination. Break times were spent in our imaginary worlds, whether out in the Wild West, where we were breaking horses and riding bareback over the prairies, or in Regency England where we were the bad girls of the family always getting into trouble over some breach of decorum or other.
As we got older, we slept over at each other’s houses and on one memorable occasion spent New Year’s Eve at The Glen, a nightclub set in an old quarry. Quite why she ended up with such a bad hangover, I don’t remember. I do remember the following morning watching her eating scrambled eggs on toast, slathered in tomato ketchup. Every bite and swallow was an act of will, but she was determined to get it down as she was sure it was what she needed to get rid of the thundering in her head.
We grew up, we moved away to live and work in different cities, then different countries. But we were always there for each other. And that’s still true decades later, as it is for all my friends.
After family, friends are the most important people in my life and it is friendship, in particular the long standing sort, that is the basis of “Picking up the Pieces.” Friendship, cake and the mutual support that only lifelong friends can provide.