My Man, Friday
I sat in the ladies lounge surrounded by young women listening to their dull gossip about the new neighbour, the expensive diamonds, the next gathering etc. I already knew our neighbour’s whole biography and I think each cut of that expensive diamond had its image imprinted on my mind. This however didn’t interest me much. What did fascinate me however was that their gossip kept revolving about the same topics: the same “new” neighbour (who by the way was not yet invited to the parties), the same new ring. I sat and wondered whether it was just their lack of memory retainability or was there some hidden meaning between their words that just slipped my mind? I cannot fathom how the lips can utter the same story time and again.
Every Sunday I have to convince myself that these parties aren’t completely pointless and it’s refreshing to hear new gossip. That it keeps the mind excited. After all, my mother is a great protagonist of socializing and makes sure that I do exactly that. With this poor failing attempt to coax myself, I drag my reluctant body to the weekly parties ready for some comments on my gained weight or my dress. What’s even worse is that I am often caught showing signs of boredom or lack of interest. Something just yanks the etiquettes out of me in such places. However, last Friday was not as bad as I thought it would be. The ladies had decided to celebrate the arrival of spring and planned a grand tea party inviting the whole community. It was indeed a lavish setting. The flower arrangements, the savoury food, the lively gathering and the good weather was indeed mood lifting. And word got around that the “new” neighbour was there too. With my social butterflies flying around, news wasn’t hard to get: it turned out that he was a rather charming fellow and a great conversationalist. Sadly a widower. Word also got around that he was currently surrounded by a group of young girls and won’t be hard to spot. And indeed, near the river, trapped by the giggling girls was a handsome man laughing and entertaining his flock. Why they called him charming, I could see. Why they called him a good conversationalist, was yet to be found out.
As I was walking towards my group of girls I was caught midway by my dear old uncle Wilson. After offering me a cheroot (which I respectfully declined) and inquiring after my dear mother, he set off talking about his paper company and that he direly needed to replace the manager. Engrossed in our conversation I completely forgot about the “new” neighbour and was much more interested in the stock market. So when my uncle introduced me to him, I was totally caught off guard and the tea cup somehow slipped out of hand and landed on the grass. I apologised for my clumsiness and excused to clean up the mess.
After settling my nervous fidgets, I returned to my uncle and once again was introduced to, the very famous, Mr Friday. After a few introductory remarks about the party, the weather, his new addition to our small community, we started talking about our careers. Turned out that he was a professor of The European history. Our conversation started circling around his subject, moved to literature works of the 18th century, then to the famous writer and our youth’s ability to become potential writers. We talked about books, music, travelling, painting, culinary and what not. And thus, his second trait of being a good conversationalist was indeed proven with much splendour.
It was quite late when we noticed the girls’ eyes on us and the setting
sun. We decided to call it a day and with a refreshed mind I said goodbye to my dear friend. Yes, we had already become friends.
It is said, that those who become friends on a journey are indeed the best friends. For they only know the virtues not the follies of each other before their paths diverge. Same was the case with us I would say; Mr Friday was not seen ever again in our streets. Word spread that he left the town on an urgent call he received and shouldn’t be expected to return anytime soon.