Depending on when you read this, I may or may not be old.
Rache, Shel, Mel, Chlo, Chels, Saz, Roz, in the words of Victor Meldrew, “I don’t belIEVE it!”
Surely we just went to sleep last night after a sleepover at Rache’s house, spent watching Friends and listening to Taxiride and Take That, eating Doritos and Top Deck and Lesley’s home-made bread and tomato sauce sandwiches (okay, that may have just been me).
Surely, Roz, we were just dancing together to the Can’t Hardly Wait soundtrack (I can’t feel my legs. I HAVE NO LEGS!).
Surely, Mel, we just threw you that Geelong-themed party for your birthday.
Surely, Shel, you just told us for the fiftieth time that day that something was “disgusting”.
Surely, Saz, you were still only dreaming of being an actress-slash-singer.
Surely, Chlo, we were just on Neil’s old yellow school bus, trundling along the coast towards home, laughing as Neil told that gorgeous boy to “mind the cows” when we dropped him off at Doctor’s Rocks.
Surely, Chels, you were still making fun of me because somebody said YOU looked more like Jennifer Love Hewitt.
That can’t really be fifteen years ago, can it?
Surely, I’ll go to sleep tonight and wake up in Rache’s rumpus room, with salsa all over my doona.
Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll wake up in my new life, with my darling Tiger snoring by my side, bottom in the air, and just feel so utterly grateful that I am still best friends with all you amazing ladies, who have gone on to live such brilliant lives.
But here we are. Still friends. Still strong. I love you all. Here’s to the next thirty-one.
I only hope that, when we’re sixty-two, we’re still dancing like lunatics to nineties pop and quoting Circle of Friends*.
(“All right. I’ll hold it. But I won’t diddle it about, d’you hear?”)