I am such a bad friend. This weekend, I was supposed to go to Bath (about a two-hour drive from here) to meet up with two friends I met as an undergraduate. One of them has a baby a couple of months younger than my own tiny daughter, and the other, to whom I was always closer, is godmother to said infant; the idea was that they would come from London together, and I, armed with sling and baby, would meet them there for a bit of a catch-up, combined with tea-drinking and whatnot. 

I wimped out. 

The plan was suggested about two months ago, and when I agreed, to be honest, it was such a long way off that it didn’t really seem real. I could say that the witchling’s sleep patterns have changed and that made me hesitant. It would be true, but it’s not the reason I didn’t go. I could say that we’ve had ten days of visitors, hard physical work and general bedlam. Again, true, but not the reason I didn’t go. I could even say that, unwittingly, I exposed the witchling to chicken pox early last week, and it’s possible she’s picked it up (thank you, Steiner School, for not mentioning that when you confirmed by phone that the toddler group was running and had space for us to come along to try it out). Again, true, but still not the reason I didn’t go. 

If I’m perfectly honest, I don’t really know why I didn’t go. I suppose, thinking about it, that I feel I have little left in common with these people. One of them, K, was a sort-of friend while we lived in the same halls, but I saw little of her after I met Quercus (and, to be honest, that’s probably true of most people I’ve met since I’ve known Quercus). The other, G, is one of the nicest people I’ve ever known; genuinely lovely, she has resolutely stayed in touch with me, despite my disinclination to leave Devon, while she’s been all over the place, training to be a lawyer and working overseas. She once told me that I am her touchstone for inspiration regarding the combination of career and relationship; as yet, she hasn’t had a serious relationship, but she thinks that the fact that I got a PhD and a man I love means that there must be hope for her. But, other than the loveliness of that comment, we have nothing in common. She is very career-driven, and works sixty-hour weeks regularly as a city lawyer, while I loaf home from work as soon as humanly possible, and do my best to avoid committing to anything even vaguely work-related whenever I can. She openly admits that the thing she wants most is LOTS of money. Well, our buggered house, ancient sweaters, and general discomfort at expenditure of nearly any sort probably speak volumes there; let’s say it’s pretty safe to assume that it’s not really money which motivates me. (I don’t mean to be wanky about that; money is, of course, a necessity for us, as for anyone, but I hope that we don’t put getting it, or conserving it, above everything else.)

I’ve never been very good at keeping in touch with people over long periods of time, and over distance too. I seem to manage one or the other, but both together present too hard a challenge. I feel bad, though, about this one; G is such a nice person, and now that the ship has sailed for this particular meet-up, I feel I should have made more effort, should have gone, should at least have called rather than emailing to say I wouldn’t be able to make it after all. I would hate her to think that I just don’t care; it’s not that, after all. I suppose, though, that the grim truth is that I just don’t care enough. I’d rather spend time with Quercus and the tiny daughter, which, after the adventures of the last ten days, is what we did; it’s been about two weeks since we had any time to ourselves, just to quietly do whatever, just to be, to live life as it happens. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t feel guilty about that, and part of me knows full well that G probably won’t get what that means, and that I am a Bad Friend (TM). Ho hum. When do you just declare, do you think, and accept that some friendships last, and some lapse, and that’s not a bad thing, necessarily?

(On which note, though it’s unlikely, if you are reading this, Mr. Rutherford, please get in touch; we’ve tried calling and emailing, and we do need to talk about the caravan, she said, in serious tones.)