After five years in the UK, one of my oldest friends who I had started my weird and wonderful Oxford adventure with, was returning to Australia. So the originals of our "crowd" all returned to Oxford to gather for one last dinner to say good-bye.
After running around in the morning doing errands (and giggling at my flatmate who was trying to recover from a nasty hangover), I finally made my way to the bus stop to catch the coach bus up to Oxford. I was running a little bit late, yet if I made the next bus, I would arrive just in time for the 7 PM dinner reservation. Yet wouldn't you know it, when the coach arrived, it was full? I had to wait 15 minutes for the next one to arrive, and as it happened....I was 15 minutes late for dinner. Damn how the timing on that one worked out exactly!
Making it even worse, as I waited for the bus, one of my oldest friends, Alister, called, asking if I was up in Oxford already and wanted to hang out. Grrrr....I was still stuck in London! Particularly as he's a busy consultant these days and I don't get to see him nearly as much as I'd like, it was frustrating to miss a rare opportunity to spend time together.
Eventually I did make it to dinner however, where other people turned out to be even later than I was, but we had a lovely dinner with lots of laughter and brilliant conversation. Afterwards we moved onto the Victoria pub, my favourite pub in perhaps the entire world. It's this classic and elegant old pub, with a plane the size of a small pony suspended from the ceiling, giant potted ferns in the corners, plenty of nooks with big old leather chairs, brass railings and an atmosphere that makes you want to get a pint and some friends and just while away the hours.
Finally at midnight the pub was closing and we had to go, and all of a sudden it hit me that I was unlikely to see my Australian friend again anytime soon. (We shall refrain from words like "never", because I don't think I could bear it, and I'm planning a trip to Australia in November anyway). I started crying a little, but luckily the Australian gave me a big hug and told me not to cry, and then my oldest friend Alister whisked me away before I could make too much of a fool of myself. Even as he hugged me too and assured me that he was crying inside too, it was only because he was a guy that I didn't see the tears on the outside. (Although this is where I hate estrogen, making you cry in public!)
Alister had offered to drive me back to London, so I didn't have to take the coach, but then of course the car was parked on the absolute opposite end of town to the pub. So we ended up taking a 45-minute walk through the old back alleys and cobblestone streets of the quiet colleges where we had spent so many years together. We talked about the great friends we had made there, how everyone was leaving, and how this place which had for so long been "ours" was now so familiar, but we had to acknowledge that the mantle of ownership had now passed on. The place of so many of our wonderful youthful coming-of-age memories was ours no longer, even as we passed beneath those silent dreaming spires, watching over us as we passed by on the still and quiet streets below.
When we finally arrived back at the car (and my feet were screaming at having to endure a 45-minute walk in heels on cobblestones), Alister gave his girlfriend a call before we headed home. And then revealed to me the slight political wrinkle that since he had refused to drive his girlfriend all of the way to her doorstep on a recent night previously, he felt he couldn't in good conscience do for me what he'd failed to do for his girlfriend of several years. Of course, this gave me free reign to pester him about why he had yet to propose to his girlfriend (as she's absolutely lovely and I doubt he will ever find anyone more perfect for him), but as ever, rationale for the male fear of commitment eludes me, and he was particularly unwilling to open up about the subject.
I wonder at times too if his girlfriend knows about the fact that Alister and I had a brief, passionate fling back in the day before she ever appeared on the scene. Thinking about it now, I know that it objectively happened, but it seems like another lifetime, I just can't picture it now. (It was one of those rare moments where a man can be a lifesaver by stepping up to be your rebound fling when you desperately need one after a nasty break-up. I always look back on our affair fondly as a result, as it was obviously what I so clearly needed at the time, and we've been able to return to being friends, because he never stopped being a marvellous friend to me). So his girlfriend truly has nothing to be concerned about, yet I still hope she is unaware of our history, just the same.
So he ended up dropping me just down the street from my flat (although we agreed upon a much further away location if his girlfriend should ever ask about it), although he e-mailed me the next day to ask, "Did you make it back ok from the petrol station ok? Most un-gallent of me, but thanks for the help to keep my eyes open on the way back. " Yes, most un-gallant, but it's funny how with your best friends it all doesn't matter. The sheer pleasure of their company, even on a rambling late-night drive with random stops at highway rest stations and with mindless chatter, makes you enjoy going along with all the ridiculous schemes. Sometimes it's just great to have good friends.
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