Skip to main content

The Diary Days


Picture the scene, it's 2000 and I'm sitting in the kitchen in my Princess Jasmine pyjamas and eating Heinz cream of tomato soup with buttered challah. It's half term, and I'm bored.

"Muuuuuummmmm" I crone "I don't have anything to do. I want to see my friends. Where's the class list?" 

Just like that, my Mum pulls the holy 'class list' from the study with the house lines of all my classmates printed like she's my PR agent with her Rolodex. 
And that was it. 
Back then all you had to do was phone up your mate's houseline, use your 'polite phone voice' to say 'Hello Mrs Jacobson, is Tash there please?' and you had plans. 

Just like that, you were standing in Blockbusters with your friend picking between Miss Congeniality and Meet The Parents, absolutely tits deep in Butterkist popcorn.

My lord how things have changed.

In the shortest of flashes; social arrangements went from this to carpooling to Batmitzvahs, to University clubbing, to Mayfair clubbing (the odd stint in Brixton - who did we think we were) and now we have finally arrived at the day I didn't foresee until I was in my 40s:

The Diary Days. 

The amount of times I have non-ironically said "let me check my diary" and "how's mid November" and "shall we pencil something in for the New Year" is bloody terrifying. 
I'm turning into my mother so quickly that you should all be warned for signs of me mentioning that the weather is looking a bit overcast and popping a fiver into your pocket when you go on holiday.

Sure, thankfully our diaries are on our phones now and not in a dreaded Filofax (I would get a red one though...maybe embossed) but it doesn't quite soften the existential blow.

What we need to remind ourselves, is that we're all in the same boat. The nature of our friendships has officially changed. Just a couple of years ago, I would wake up with eyeliner down my chin and vodka in my hair with a text to say "Greenberys, brunch, 2pm".
I didn't even need the text really. Regardless of the situation, every Sunday I would wake up half-drunk and know that I'd be eating an overpriced eggs benedict within the hour.

Now, don't get me wrong, thankfully I still wake up pretty often with my my eyebrows in different places and a liver sponsored by Grey Goose. The difference now though, is that there's also a man next to me calling me a disgrace. 
Whatever plans I have that day, I've known about them since my last period and they're carefully worked around things like 'meal prepping' and 'hair masking'. 

I know I'm not alone in this. I've spent the past few days trying to make midweek plans with three people. One is dead set on Nandos, the other keeps Kosher so can't step in there without having to repent for it next Yom Kippur and the third has a flat viewing but doesn't know what time it's happening. Thank god I don't know any vegans is all I can say. 
It's so hard to fit in quality time with the friends who really matter without more often than not showing up in my pyjamas or with a tupperware of my own food. (Yes, I'm still wearing Princess Jasmine PJs thanks to Primark)

However busy we all are though; between cross-referencing our diaries, factoring in our gym schedules, work schedules and whether or not Mercury is in retrograde - we always make it work.

Once we finally do all get together, it doesn't matter what we're wearing, eating or need to do afterwards - the time is always so worthwhile. As soon as I'm with my friends, it's like all time freezes and we're finally in our safe haven. 
I can always count on Sacha being enraged about something that happened to me and not even her, Abi laughing at herself until she's in tears, Shira chain smoking and talking about random men I've never heard of and Adina talking at 1000mph without taking a breath. (Kate is going to call me after this furious.)

It's because of moments like these that I can't understand people who let themselves forget about their friends in lieu of being too 'busy'. It doesn't matter how often you see each other - that time spent is the most restorative thing in the world. A hair mask for the soul if you will. 

 So yes, our friendships are changing. Our lives are changing. Some friends are awake at 2am feeding babies and the others are up at the same hour kissing strangers. The only thing that will never change is feeling as excited as a flat-chested kid in Blockbusters every time we see each other. 

Until next time,

The Geisler

Popular posts from this blog

They Always Come Back

I remember the first times a fuckboy ever broke my heart, my best friend said to me "they always come back." At the time, if I recall correctly, I was in our student house wearing a giant purple onesie with pools of eyeliner down my face and two cigarettes in my hand. Looking like what can best be described as  Barney the Dinosaur's cracked out ex-wife, I shouted back 'AS FUCKING IF'. Eloquent young lady I was. But seriously - as fucking if. As if some douchebag who shouldn't have won the race against the other sperm to join this planet was going to magically 'come back' and save the day. The thing is though...she was right. I have had all sorts of break ups. Messy break ups, clean breaks, break ups over MSN, WhatsApp, FaceTime and even once via my sister on the phone mimicking my voice. No matter what though, in some way or another they do always come back. There aren't many things I'm afraid of. Spiders? No problem - they're

How To Spot A Fuckboy

So you've started dating this new guy and you are absolutely convinced he's ~*the one*~. You know, because he is tall, good looking and you've pictured your wedding day on the first date and in that scenario he makes such a funny yet touching speech in his little tux. Just the normal stuff. The reality is, however, that more and more women every day are falling victim to the fuckboy. It's like cystitis of the heart.  What is a Fuckboy you ask? A Fuckboy is someone who acts like he wants something serious and just fucks you around for absolutely no proven reason. Sometimes it may seem that all they want is sex, but more often than not it is the pure joy of confusing you into thinking you're in love and then moving to 1 Yemen Road, Yemen.  Unfortunately Fuckboys aren't so easy to spot in the daylight, they're like Werewolves only not the sexy kind from that stupid Twilight movie that I pretended not to like. (Slow-motion stripping Werew

Can anyone really play 'hard to get'?

  Hello team of loyal readers (a small handful of my mum's friends and some people in India) I was actually not intending to defibrillate this blog back to life again, but here we are ladies, gents and everyone in-between. On Monday night, I sat down with my girls to watch the first episode of a profoundly intellectual documentary that subverts all our ideas about love and relationships. Yep, it was Love Island.  As with all group arrangements to watch TV, it soon dissipated into chaos of talking over the show and me spilling prosecco on the couch. Because my friends are actually more interesting than watching people suck each other's toes in HD (but only just) this wasn't such a bad thing. The topic of the night was all about how and when to message a guy who you're in the early stages of dating. My god it is a motherfucking minefield. Every single option has an equal and opposite.  If you message after the date to say thank you, is it keen?  But then if you don't