I went to bed at the weekend dreaming drunkenly about this latest blog post, knowing that I must must find the time and memories to write it when I got home.
I am lucky to have some wonderful friends, but there are 10 very special women who have burrowed into a place of their own, across more than a decade of weekends such as this one, and it is this group who are the ports in the storm that is sometimes my life.
In the year 2000 a random selection of girls got together, all of whom had been at Leeds University at the same time and were either my good friends, or their good friends and those who were free at the time.
We started it because my hen weekend gave a few of us the bug, and to help our other friend who was single mum to a gorgeous girl, and sorely in need of some fun with 10 babysitters on hand.
Those two days and nights of dance routines to learn and wigs to laugh in and food to eat and wine to drink and walks to walk and trampolines to bounce on and laughing and learning and hugging and playing, was the start of something that I think none of us knew would endure as it has.
Each year we gently find our way around the touchy subjects from last time and give those people the space to update us if they want to. We talk constantly together, in pairs, in fours, with the dregs of wine at the end of the night, in our rooms before sleep or with tea in the mornings over the washing up. We sing and marvel at our ability to come up with fake band names, we write notes and read back and laugh again at what was so funny we had to write it down in the first place. We share everything and yet miss so much of what goes on, as the group waxes and wanes its way through the weekend together.
This Sunday, in our lovely cottage in Rye, we started to track back to the start - where and when we went each year and who was missing and why.
What struck me as I took notes was the personal history enclosed in that tally. People missed years because of pregnancy, studying, family illness and family deaths, travelling or moving away, and sometimes just because life got in the way. Our histories presented themselves both by why we weren't there or what preoccupied us when we were.
And in spite all of that real life stuff that could have derailed us at any time, we have persisted, sometimes via just a sneaky day in London to tide us over to next year; and this long into it I think we all know some things are constant.
That we never ever judge anyone for what they can and can't cope with, how they do or don't feel, whether they will or won't talk, because across this time we've all been the one who couldn't summon up their smile.
As I write this, I am struck by these women, this group, of friends close and some less so and yet who as a group have done so much without knowing it: Who allowed me to be so troubled, so distant, so stressed and so on the edge for so many years along the way, even when I couldn't even show them how I felt. Who were the subject of many a session with my therapist, and at least one panic attack that I can remember. Who allowed me to drown a little, taking turns to hold onto my wrist ever so gently to keep my face out of the water, and who until now have had no thanks or real acknowledgement.
So thank you for loving and trusting me, and making fun of me and appreciating me, and guiding me and putting up with me and for helping me smile and cry and be quiet and loud, and stressed and calm. All just by being who you are, for one precious weekend a year.
This photo is missing four of us but it makes my heart swell with happiness - at the sneaky glimpse of the theatrical world that brought us together at University, at the fun memory of running up the hill and setting the camera on the other side, at the hats and smiles and frowns and poses.
At 11 glorious strong funny wonderful women - both pictured, not and including myself - who I am proud and happy to call my girls.
I am lucky to have some wonderful friends, but there are 10 very special women who have burrowed into a place of their own, across more than a decade of weekends such as this one, and it is this group who are the ports in the storm that is sometimes my life.
In the year 2000 a random selection of girls got together, all of whom had been at Leeds University at the same time and were either my good friends, or their good friends and those who were free at the time.
We started it because my hen weekend gave a few of us the bug, and to help our other friend who was single mum to a gorgeous girl, and sorely in need of some fun with 10 babysitters on hand.
Those two days and nights of dance routines to learn and wigs to laugh in and food to eat and wine to drink and walks to walk and trampolines to bounce on and laughing and learning and hugging and playing, was the start of something that I think none of us knew would endure as it has.
Each year we gently find our way around the touchy subjects from last time and give those people the space to update us if they want to. We talk constantly together, in pairs, in fours, with the dregs of wine at the end of the night, in our rooms before sleep or with tea in the mornings over the washing up. We sing and marvel at our ability to come up with fake band names, we write notes and read back and laugh again at what was so funny we had to write it down in the first place. We share everything and yet miss so much of what goes on, as the group waxes and wanes its way through the weekend together.
This Sunday, in our lovely cottage in Rye, we started to track back to the start - where and when we went each year and who was missing and why.
What struck me as I took notes was the personal history enclosed in that tally. People missed years because of pregnancy, studying, family illness and family deaths, travelling or moving away, and sometimes just because life got in the way. Our histories presented themselves both by why we weren't there or what preoccupied us when we were.
And in spite all of that real life stuff that could have derailed us at any time, we have persisted, sometimes via just a sneaky day in London to tide us over to next year; and this long into it I think we all know some things are constant.
That we never ever judge anyone for what they can and can't cope with, how they do or don't feel, whether they will or won't talk, because across this time we've all been the one who couldn't summon up their smile.
As I write this, I am struck by these women, this group, of friends close and some less so and yet who as a group have done so much without knowing it: Who allowed me to be so troubled, so distant, so stressed and so on the edge for so many years along the way, even when I couldn't even show them how I felt. Who were the subject of many a session with my therapist, and at least one panic attack that I can remember. Who allowed me to drown a little, taking turns to hold onto my wrist ever so gently to keep my face out of the water, and who until now have had no thanks or real acknowledgement.
So thank you for loving and trusting me, and making fun of me and appreciating me, and guiding me and putting up with me and for helping me smile and cry and be quiet and loud, and stressed and calm. All just by being who you are, for one precious weekend a year.
This photo is missing four of us but it makes my heart swell with happiness - at the sneaky glimpse of the theatrical world that brought us together at University, at the fun memory of running up the hill and setting the camera on the other side, at the hats and smiles and frowns and poses.
At 11 glorious strong funny wonderful women - both pictured, not and including myself - who I am proud and happy to call my girls.
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