Who Loves Ya?


It would be time consuming to go ask every bald Greek with a lollypop this question so we really should narrow the field a bit.

Who would be willing to buy me a drink, pay the council rate demand, and clean out the gutters before the rainy season? I can provide a kitchen spoon for the purpose.

Okay, now that we have cleared the room, we can talk. I doubt anyone will be coming back, from the speed that they ran out. The question could be more broadly put – who remembers ya? And rings ya up? And comes around to visit ya? I have been exercised with this recently when I reflected upon the various societies I have belonged to over the years , the intensity with which they were engaged, and the timeless friendships that were forged…never to be heard of again.

I have been lucky – I have retained three people from one society – eight from another – and none at all from two previous social circles. Eleven is better than nothing. In all theses calculations I reminded myself that times change, as do people in those times. Mortality cleaves off some, as does distance when they or I move. The basic societies change and can become unrecognisable in a decade.

But it still would have been nice to think that some more people would have wanted contact. Perhaps I am fooling myself when I consider that in so many cases the only venue that saw a meeting was a clubroom or their homes. Many never managed to read a roadmap in reverse so as to find their way to my place.

Ah, but I do have the satisfaction of this blog and of Facebook. One opens my thoughts to them and the other lets me see pictures of their children sticking out their tongues or what they had for dinner. Perhaps the children are sticking their tongues out at the dinner…

Perhaps I should not pine for more contact – there may be wolves lurking in the social woods after all – or sad bears with sad tales that would depress me. Perhaps it would be better to just issue more invitations for drinks parties and catch people at their sprightliest and thirstiest best. At least the man at Parry Cellars will be cheerful…


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