What Writing Have a Little Faith Taught Me about
Friends
Good friends
know when to lie and when to tell the truth
Only
your best mates can be relied on to know exactly when to make you feel better
with a little fib, and when to break the painful truth to you. Great lies my
friends have told me include: ‘It was delicious, I’m just not that hungry’; ‘It
will grow back quickly’; and, ‘He’s probably just intimidated by your
intelligence, and that’s why he refuses to talk to you, look at you, or wear
that shirt woven from your own hair that you sent him’. Necessary truths my
friends have (gently) told me include: ‘I’m not sure that acid yellow is your
colour’; ‘You did sound just a tiny bit like a constipated donkey’; and, ‘I
think you need a nap. But first you should put down that cocktail and take that
saucepan off your head. And climb down from there. And let that poor cat go.’
When friends
upset you it’s usually just a misunderstanding
When
you’re writing about friends falling out, you can see everyone’s point of view,
which has helped me realise that friends almost always have good intentions,
even when they do something that upsets you. This has made me feel more
forgiving about that evil thing my friend Gemma did. Obviously, she meant well
and I need to keep that in mind when I think about her immense stupidity. In
future, instead of remembering my ruined birthday party, I’ll think about the
love in her heart as she ruined my
birthday party. In fact, I’m quite prepared to just let it go. In the last
week, I’ve barely even mentioned it on Twitter, Facebook, my blog, and that
‘Update on the Gemma Situation’ blackboard that I’ve put in my front window.
I’ve even let her cut down her weekly apology to just the one PowerPoint
presentation.
Friends give the
best presents
When
it comes to presents I’m quite happy with something small, you know, hair
slides, chocolate drops . . . diamonds. But the best gifts I’ve ever had have
been things that my friends knew would be really special to me. As a small
child I desperately wanted a toy car that you inserted a penny into to make it
speed across the floor. Unfortunately, my mum preferred to buy me things that
reinforced gender stereotypes and prepared me the aspirationless domestic
drudgery that she and generations of women in my family had suffered before me,
so I got a pink dustpan and brush instead. I had no idea that I’d ever
mentioned this tragic tale to my friend, but one Christmas she handed me two
small packages. The first one contained a penny. ‘Wow, thanks,’ I said, ‘I’ll
try not to spend it all at once.’ Because it’s always nice to say something
sarcastic to a person who is about to do something incredibly sweet for you . .
. Yes, the other gift was the shiny penny-powered car of my childhood dreams.
And this was in the days before eBay. It had taken her a lot of time and effort
to get hold of that car. And a crowbar. And possibly some Mafia connections and
a dodgy Russian accent.
Friends make
everything funny
When
I started writing Have a Little Faith I thought I’d get professional and gather
some material. This meant that whenever one of my friends said something funny
I’d shout, ‘Stop! Say that again! Slowly! Spell any difficult words!’ and I’d
scramble about looking for a pen to write down their hilariousness. But when I
got round to reviewing the meticulous notes that I’d written in mascara on the
back of a Starburst wrapper, I found that away from my friends, the jokes
weren’t so funny. The best comedy comes from knowing people really well and
having a history with them, and while if you work really hard you can sort of
recreate this in a story, it made me really appreciate the way my friends and I
can have a laugh without me having to write a character profile on anyone.
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