The oldest friends are the best

Like two cackling old dears, we put the world to rights over the cheapest pub round known to man – 65p!
“They only charged me for the crisps,” laughed my all-time best mate. “They didn’t charge for the water! That’s the cheapest round ever.”
Exactly the same cheeky grin I remembered from school lit up her face. We both giggled like schoolgirls.
Deep down, we still are.
We hadn’t laid eyes on each other for two years but that doesn’t matter a jot to hardcore old mates.
You can tell new friends about the past but they did not live it with you. They can never truly understand.

They didn’t see how ridiculous you looked in your denim jacket with Status Quo daubed on the back in felt tip (that was me) or the stripy bubble bee jumper with giant punk rocker holes (that was her).
They never saw the boys you fancied – Elsie, Bunny, Nobbie, Crispie – or knew their daft nicknames.
They never went to Rolleston Youth Club and sat in the punk room trying to look pale and interesting while appearing to enjoy screechingly bad music on vinyl. And they quite possibly never went to the Saturday Night Fever dance lessons. (At least, our musical tastes were varied!)
Our friendship blossomed at 13. We hit it off playing football hangman during rainy school lunch-breaks. She supported Man U (glory fan!), I backed my home team, Derby County.
Chalk and cheese, the phrase must have been written for us. She’s into astrophysics, I’d struggle to describe astroturf. She’s vegan, I eat rump steak.
She’s never married or had children, I’ve done both.
But our differences are the making of us. And our values are the same. That compatibility, common ground, good humour and understanding of the world that linked us as teenagers has never dimmed – nor has our sense of fun.
She was a swine when it came to hangman. At that time, my knowledge of footie was on a par with any football pundit’s but she scoured the globe to come up with obscure foreign players – Outa Mongolia’s centre forward, that sort of thing.
At 40-odd, despite some time apart (too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in our chaotic lives), we met again and proved the irrefutable truth. Women are brilliant at friendship.
The years can roll by, the ups and some terrible downs can roll by, the faces can become etched with lines and the odd grey hair rear its silvery head.
But meet up with an old friend and it’s as if the decades fall away, taking you right back to the person you were all those years ago – the happy-go-lucky kid full of hopes for the future, ambitions and dreams.
The child in yourself never truly goes away.
When I was 17 a woman of around 50 (she was probably only 35 but looked ancient at the time) told me that she remembered exactly how it felt to be as young as me.
“I feel 17 inside,” she said. “You feel exactly the same you know, love.”
Now the years have piled on, I understand completely. I still feel as daft as I did at 14, as does my buddy.
Back together again, we howled with laughter for four hours solid. And neither of us needed alcohol to fuel the fun.
The best things in life are free – or, if you’re lucky, only cost 65p.