Old Friends

When I was a child, one my pleasures was the reading of the Biggles series of novels by Captain W.E. Johns.
I don’t know what drew me to them, but I know I was not alone; Biggles (worth) and his “chums” Bertie, Algie and Ginger had squadrons of, mainly male, readers throughout the world. Later in life I was to successfully parody those books in a play I called Biggles Flies Undone, which today, 28 years after its writing, is still performed.
In my late-teens I was drawn to another British series, that of Flashman, the consummate cad authored but not created by George Macdonald Frazer. Here the attraction is more evident—fast-paced, rollicking adventures set in historical events and featuring no small amount of sex. Later still I dropped the adventure bit and just went for the sex—the books of Henry Miller.
The point is that certain authors have charted my life and had my loyalty. One, a significantly attractive author from the United States, Sharon Kay Penman, even has me a fawning fan. They have stuck with me—until death, in the first three cases (Sharon lives, as does love and lust)—and I stick with them.
I can’t say that of other areas of my life. Nor can anyone, I think. We all hope those closest to us will remain so forever but even that can’t be certain. We hope that business relationships, particularly the rare friendships forged in the furnace of business, will be as enduring as steel but they too are prone to tarnish and rust. Let’s not even consider politicians.
I am drawn to the conclusion therefore that the only true rendering of the enduring but hopelessly optimistic adage “until death…” is a man’s reciprocated love for his dog. Everything else is fiction.
Am I depressed by that? No. Even an exemplary bottle of single malt whiskey will not last forever, not in my reach. And friendships, like whiskey, are there to be enjoyed and honoured while they last, as long as they last. To cultivate the analogy just once more: whilst most whiskeys and friendships are quickly consumed and have no lingering aftertastes, there are others—rarities—that linger and provide a fine “finish” and delicious memories. They are life’s treasures.
At 60 years of age I have more old and deleted friends than I will ever now have new. But that is a library of enrichment for which I am immensely grateful.

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