Lucky Fish

While we were in Spain I left The House in the Middle of the Street with The Siamese Princess, Big-Boned BabyCat and The Big Black Dog in the capable hands of my friend, The Pond. When I landed in The City Beneath the Mountain after our trip to Spain I turned on my phone, as one does. There was a message from The Pond:

Hello, it’s me. Everything is fine at your house. Call me if you have any questions about the dog or cats. Or fish. Byeee.

Fish? I wondered if I’d heard right, having just flown and my ears being slightly blocked. I was sure I’d misheard, so left it at that, choosing to make numerous happy-I’m-home phonecalls all starting with the obligatory “Hola! Como estas?” that is necessary after a Spanish holiday.

On entering my kitchen I realised that my ears had not in fact been that blocked. There on the kitchen table in what I can only explain as an enormous champagne glass was a lone goldfish, swimming around and around, as goldfishes are meant to do.

We nodded (well, I nodded, he kind of waved a fin) in slightly embarassed acknowledgement of each other’s presence, not really knowing what to say, and I sidled off to wash airport off me, not seeing him again until the next morning.

In between time I called The Pond and exclaimed my horror of her not telling me the name of my houseguest, and therefore causing the embarrassed encounter.

His name is Lucky. I introduced myself at breakfast while he eyed my oatmeal porridge. The Pond says I may not give him any, no matter how much he looks at it. I enquired whether a boiled egg and toasty soldiers were a better option and she tutted and mumbled something about coming to collect him, possibly within minutes.

In the meantime, I’m to give him only three little flakey things each day. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not a goldfish, even one called Lucky Fish.

Nibbling along

There I was, sat at a table at the Thai place down the road, outside on the stoep (verandah to my UK readers. Well, reader - Mud), the new moon (and, no, nothing to do with those blooming teenage vampire hearthrobs who seem to be taking over the world) just visible above the rooftop across the road, balmy air, looking around a table at which there were seven people. Six of us live within walking distance, and the seventh was The Pond, who is here from Faraway. She used to live with me, and still has a place in The House in the Middle of the Street so, basically, we were all from The Hood.

It got me thinking how lucky I am, to live in the area I live in, with the other people who live there. It's a small suburb, within a bigger suburb which prides itself on it's 'village' persona. We have a little street of restaurants, we have a Village Association, and we have rules about not building high rise buildings. People (generally) greet each other in the streets and their dogs, and then them, make friends in the parks (we have three). It's just all rather lovely really.

My mind wrapped itself warmly in those thoughts as I stared at the silver sliver moon and the easy conversation between the people at the table became background noise until my reverie was interrupted, not unpleasantly, by the lovely Thai lady who owns the place saying:

"Would you like any starters to nibble along before your mains?"

Who can say no to starters to nibble along?

The Pond

It is Friday so I am in my lovely orange kitchen, The BFF next to me, after waffles. We're huddled by the heater. It has been unseasonably warm and beautiful, but, today, the Winter has returned and it is pouring outside. I think it's The Weatherman being all metaphorical (as opposed to meteorological, snigger). You see The Pond is leaving to Faraway on Monday. Which makes me feel grey, and cloudy, and makes big raindrops of the salty version drip out of my eyes, creating little puddles of sadness on the table and floor. Very much like the weather outside, without the salt though.

The Pond and I have known each other for three years, but it feels like forever (in a good way) and, if I believed in reincarnation I would say we'd probably known each other in many previous lives too. We are, as Anne of Green Gables would say, kindred spirits. Once we'd met, there was a period of almost infatuation... I said I didn't like her (for various, joking reasons) but we pursued each other like primary school children with a crush, both knowing, I think, that we were destined to be solid friends for, well, forever.

There were some wierd coincidences - her beloved brother, who died in a motorbike crash a couple of years before I met her, and I, share a birthday; her mother's birthday is on the day of my Tragedy. Stuff like that. Most overwhelming though, was just that we got on so well, instantly. We just got each other, and still do. We were discussing it the other day - we're like siblings. We love like siblings and, yes, we fight like siblings, and through it all, we are completely and utterly secure in the fact that we will always be there.

In the past three years, we've shared a house, a love for The Big Black Dog and The Siamese Princess, many tears, more fits of happy laughter, a LOT of champagne, secrets, and a mutual adoration.

But now she's leaving and, while I am happy for her because she's going to join her love who I adore too, and I really hope that she is content and happy in Faraway , I just can't bear the fact that she'll be so, well, far away.

Is it bad that each time she packs a box and puts it in the lounge, ready to go, I secretly unpack it and throw the box in the recycling?

The Pond is leaving. Sob!

The Pond is leaving. This is a seriously, seriously bad thing. To the point that when she told me she had made her mind up, I asked her if I could just pretend it wasn't happening. You see it's not just that she's leaving our house in the middle of the street. That would be okay, and was supposed to happen - she was just staying here as a stop-gap between houses. Then she was moving into another house in another suburb with her love, who was moving here from Faraway. To The City Beneath the Mountain. But now she has decided to move to be with her love instead. Faraway. It's about 1000 fucking kilometres away. Too far.

I suffer from Separation Anxiety. In the severest form. And The Pond is one of my closest friends. It'll be like losing a limb really. I know that sounds over-dramatic but, hell, in case you haven't noticed, I am prone to a little over-dramatisation. And she's the kind of friend that, when we met, it felt like I'd known her forever.

As a lighter-but-related aside - does anyone know if it's true that when they say a place is 960km away from another, it is from the post office in The City Beneath the Mountain to the post office in Faraway? That's what I heard, but I was wondering if it were true. I suppose you do need a central point to measure from, but one (or, at least I) would've thought maybe they'd take it from the mayor's house or something. You know - somewhere where a person lives because, as far as I know, nobody lives in the Post Office. I suppose it's good to know, though, for in case you have a letter to post and you want it to have Faraway stamped on the envelope, instead of The City Beneath the Mountain.

Point being: Faraway is too far away. And I don't want her to go. I wonder if I could sabotage it by hiding all her bags? She can't leave if she has nothing to pack her stuff in, can she?