Before we begin I must mention that I, without a shadow of a doubt I am the ‘perfect’ friend. Now, you may think that is a rather bold statement, but hear me out, I’m sure I can leave you convinced. For one I’m not nearly as selfish as I could be with my time. Indeed I often make the mistake of leaving my phone on allowing myself to be tracked down for that crucial ‘emotional support’. I can give excellent advice and not all of it is laced with ulterior motives. I lie, quite convincingly, about horrible outfits and ludicrous hairstyles. I can pretend I am listening to tedious day-to-day breakdowns, an awful boss and how many pounds you think you may have lost from your backside. With all of that, I defy anyone to contradict my ‘perfect’ friend status.
However despite my flawless attempts at friendship it has come to my notice that one of my underlings has been slipping steadily off the radar. At first we were ‘ladies who lunch’ everyday, then I became reserved for coffee evenings, then weekends, then just a Saturday night and now, if I am lucky I get the odd text once a fortnight. Yes, this friend has become just like the countless other women out there. You know what I am talking about ladies, we all know one (or maybe we are one) The ‘Friend Ditcher’:
A very elusive and dangerous being, without warning may vanish and re-appear in six months sobbing hysterically. Known to live on the outskirts of humanity; always out of mobile range, but still within facebook range (except for instant chat function). On rare occasion can be spotted in a crowd guided by a large hairy male. On sight will ignore you. Beware; do not startle this creature as claws are very sharp.
I must hold my hand up and say that I am, in some respects, guilty of ditching my friends. This mostly occurs on a Saturday night between the hours of 1.30-3.30 a.m. Obviously this is a minor misdemeanour, let’s face it no one wants to go home to an empty bed when pumped generously full of alcohol...unless the sheets had just been changed....ah, heaven. Anyway, back to my friend, the ditcher. It became apparent throughout our friendship that the mere whiff of a man sent her running from my direction and into his. Indeed when I thought about continuing our friendship I did think she would grow out of this stage. Sadly, on this rare occasion I was mistaken. Well, the ‘friend ditcher’, she cancelled plans left, right and centre. She would be off cooking him dinner, washing his clothes, washing her hair, just unavailable, and finally couldn't be arsed to answer. I imagined my friend’s riveting new schedule with her mule of a man to be filled full of Tesco shopping afternoons, Jeremy Kyle, leisurely walks to the GUM Clinic and increasing arse size on the sofa nights.
I pined for weeks when my friend disappeared into the arms of that ginger bloke. I even did the unthinkable and took solace in the ‘idiot’ friend’s company. Her infuriating remarks and limited intelligence did nothing to quell my misery. If I had a penny for every stupid thing she said I could have opened up an ISA...or hire someone to implant some common sense into her tiny, tiny brain. Her company provided me with a great insight into myself. I found myself to be highly intolerant and exceptionally two-faced about it. I found myself to be (quietly) critical of everything she said and I also found within myself a creative reservoir for plotting the Numpty’s murder.
You can imagine my surprise and relief when the ‘friend ditcher’ got in touch after weeks and weeks of nothing. I rallied the troops, organising a debutant party brimming with vodka, rum and sweet liqueurs. Now ladies, I’m sure you can guess what happened? Oh, she did turn up alright, but do you think we could hold her tongue and its ferocious noise. No. She emitted squeals of delight ‘my new man’ this and ‘my new man’ that. ‘Oh he is so lovely...so kind...so amazing...so sexy....so well endowed.’ Tall, toned, handsome and a gym instructor! What were the chances? No wonder she kept him and herself away. I thought about my own man, ladies, I would be sure to give him a good boot up the arse for not meeting any of the above requirements. Indeed the only thing he could instruct me on was how to twiddle the remote, oh and Xbox games; he is the master of those.
Myself and the other girls were all the same shade of green. The more she spoke the sicker we got. She, figuratively speaking, opened her bedroom door to us and inch by inch she described him and his techniques. By the end we even knew what kind of handcuffs where hanging on the headboard, where they were bought from and how much they cost. The 'friend ditcher' was gone cross eyed regaling the whole ordeal.
After we had heard all about her new manly man we were then treated to a calorie breakdown of her day. She wanted to know if we thought her arse had gotten bigger and her face fatter. I wanted to nod and scream yes it had, now have another cake you gloating moo-moo. I have also discovered that in the face of amazing adversary, that I can hold my tongue.
The night wore on to the sound of ice-cubes clinking and drinks refilling. All in all it was a merry, merry situation. The men were winking at our table and girls were gesturing (rudely) back. It was then I began to notice that the ‘friend ditcher’ with her lovely new man may not believe quite as much of her own bullshit as we did. She was perched suggestively on a bar stool, swinging herself round and round. Whooshing and swooshing to her heart’s content. I swear I only turned my back for a moment. When I turned again she was gone, darting up to the club’s stripper pole, wrapping her legs around it and her arms around some unsuspecting guy. He was not ginger, or tall, moderately handsome and definitely not her gym instructor. Being the ‘perfect’ friend that I am, I did not, under any circumstances encourage her. Nor did I stop her; she was certainly old enough to look after herself. Granted, the shots that I shoved down her neck didn’t help the situation. To cut a long story short here’s what happened: ‘friend ditcher’ meets a non ginger bloke. They go outside. Very drunk. They kiss. Very, very drunk. They grope. They make their way down a lane. It is exactly at this point that the old-new man comes up the lane, his ginger hair standing on end in horror. A huge argument unfolds on the street. New man from the club scampers and myself and the girls turn around and pretended not to know them. He shouts, she cries. She shouts and he cries. They both shout and they both cry. On lookers begin to shout too. He leaves and she cries even more.
For the rest of the night the ‘friend ditcher’ clung to us, her friends, we wiped the snot from her face and handed her more shots (she was losing a lot of fluid after all). We told her that there were plenty of men in the club that she could get off with, the night was young after all. We told her it was his loss and that it wasn’t really her fault. We told her everything she wanted to hear until we brought her makeup-stained face into a smile again.
So, to all you ‘friend ditchers’, or those of you considering becoming a ‘friend ditcher’, please consider the friends you leave behind when you embark upon your new relationship. You will need us if things go tits up, to bitch about your ex, to wipe the snot and ply you full of booze. We generally do this public service free of charge, but we, the ‘perfect’ friends, are in short supply. You could almost say we are an endangered species, our tolerance and consideration is most definitely dying out. So please, give generously your time and limit your new-man-sickening-talk to preserve our most humble institution of friendship.
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