There are few things I like more than Ryan Gosling, so I go with some friends to see his new movie, ‘Drive’. I know two things about this movie. One, it stars Ryan Gosling. Two, it’s called ‘Drive’. I’m certain I will enjoy it.
The opening credits roll and the same florid pink letters that Tom Cruise’s ‘Cocktail’ sported so proudly announce that Ryan Gosling will be accompanied by various other actors. One of whom is Carey Mulligan. Carey Mulligan is a tremendously talented actor, but will forever be for me the girl in ‘An Education’ who refuses to lose her virginity to a banana.
(We watched this movie during a skiing holiday, and spent the rest of our time on the slopes shouting ‘David, I don’t want to lose my virginity to a piece of fruit’ at one another. I really like to think we did our bit to improve the reputation of the British abroad). There are a couple of things I like instantly about ‘Drive’. 
It is extremely shiny. You might not think that is a good thing, but when compared to the picture quality of films genuinely made in the 80s, ‘Drive’ is a clear winner. I spend much of the first scene congratulating myself on living long enough to see such advances in digital media. (One’s sense of personal accomplishment increases exponentially when you take credit for things other people have achieved). I then spend some time wondering why Ryan Gosling’s voiceover is so somber. ‘Ryan!’ I want to tell him. ‘You’re absolutely beautiful. Any girl would be lucky to have you. And it seems that for this part you got to drive around really fast and dangerously in cars. Your life is a dream! Stop sulking and enjoy it.’ 
It seems Ryan is playing a stunt car driver who does overtime as a getaway driver. He takes everything very seriously. I wonder if we would be as well matched as I thought previously. Carey Mulligan has been cast as the vulnerable next-door-neighbour. She has an impossibly cute son who she is far too young to have given birth to. She has a haircut she is far too poor to afford. So far, I really like everything about this film. I’m pretty certain I will enjoy it. I don’t want to ruin the movie for those of you who haven’t seen it, so I won’t say if I did, but just a quick heads up- it is NOT a rom-com. And there is a reason why Ryan Gosling is so serious. And in hindsight, the cheery pink of the opening credits is DECEPTIVE. But you know, by all means, go see it.
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Drive
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My life is not enough like Bugsy Malone
I am having dinner with two of my friends, and one of them is telling us a story. It’s rather a good story actually, full of eligible men and late nights at speakeasys. I wonder briefly if my friend is borrowing her story from Bugsy Malone.
‘And then we ended up in Home House,’ she tells me. ‘And I sent back my vodka.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I ask, incredulously. ‘You sent back your vodka?’ ‘Yes. I was unconvinced that they had given me what I’d ordered. It wasn’t spicy enough.’ I look imploringly at our other friend, but she is smiling nicely as though it is perfectly reasonable to send vodka back at private members clubs. I wonder briefly what life would be like if I were as polite and accommodating as my smiling friend. ‘It wasn’t spicy enough?’ I yell at my other friend. ‘Who are you? What has happened to you? Are you OK?’ ‘Well, I’ve got quite into vodka recently,’ she began to explain. ‘Everyone’s into vodka,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve been into vodka since I was 14, after that magnificent summer spent drinking Archers and Lemonade, which, I know you will be shocked to hear, tastes remarkably like an over-sugared fizzy drink, and nothing at all like something which would see you throwing up on the beach at 4.30am.’
‘What a nice and not at all irrelevant story,’ my other friend politely interjects. ‘So you were saying?’ My friend continues her story. ‘Yes, I sent back my vodka, and then the barman came out with the bottle- isn’t that so funny? Just as if I had sent back some wine.’ ‘You send back wine?’ I shout, aghast. ‘Delicious, friendly wine? Why would you do that?’ Both of my friends stare at me for a second, before my friend continues her story. ‘The barman was really sweet,’ she says, ‘And gave us a free shot of another type of vodka to compare.’ My friend is an evil genius.
I know my friend has taken Tallulah, but I can’t help spending the rest of dinner thinking about which character from Bugsy Malone I should cast myself as.
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Helping my therapist
I’ve been away, so I haven’t seen my therapist for a few weeks. I decided to go away very last minute, but I know she likes to be kept in the loop, so I sent her an email. ‘Hi. I’m just at lunch, and I’m going on holiday next week with Mark Warner. See you when I get back.’ She sends me an email back immediately. (I am slightly worried my therapist is somewhat obsessed with me. Whenever I see her she is oddly preoccupied with my life and doings). ‘Hmmm. Who is Mark Warner?’ she emails in response. I suddenly remember why I like my therapist so much. ‘Oh!’ I email back. ‘Oh my sweet Kiwi therapist. Mark Warner is the name of the travel company. It’s a group trip. I know you are concerned but do not be.’
I return home with my friends to pack. (They have already packed, as have been booked into this trip for months). ‘Do you think she wanted to be invited?’ I ask them as I throw bikinis and books into my suitcase. ‘I don’t think so, no,’ my friend replies, as she tidily packs some clothing more suitable for a sailing trip into my case.
‘Hmm,’ I wonder as I throw in some dress shirts. ‘No, honestly,’ my friend says, quietly removing the shirts. ‘She’s probably just checking because it’s a fairly impetuous decision.’ ‘I see what you’re saying,’ I say. ‘I will call and let her know she is more than welcome to join us.’ I call my therapist. ‘Don’t worry!’ I say gaily down the phone. ‘Hi, is everything OK?’ she replies slowly. ‘Everything is great!’ I tell her. My friend shakes her head despairingly and repairs to the kitchen to grab a beer. ‘There are brownies,’ I call after her. ‘Sorry?’ my therapist asks down the phone. ‘Oh, not for you. No brownies for you,’ I tell her. This phone call seems to have started badly. I hope my therapist doesn’t think I’m telling her she’s fat. ‘I was just calling,’ I begin, ‘to reassure you.’ ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ she replies politely. ‘I’m actually just off to a meeting, but be safe, and I’ll see you when you get back.’ ‘Oh, OK then,’ I say. She hangs up. ‘I was going to invite her, but you know, I’m not sure she’d cope. Culturally, I mean,’ I shout downstairs to my friend. My friend says nothing. I am worried she has seen through my cover up. ‘I mean,’ I shout desperately, ‘She didn’t even know what Mark Warner was. I’m not sure it’s fair to inflict her on the group.’ My friend returns upstairs. ‘Anyway,’ I continue bravely, ‘I think it will be good for her to cope without me for a few weeks. It’s important for her to learn about boundaries.’
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Being normal sized
My friend invites us to a cocktail master class as part of London Cocktail Week. ‘The tickets are £15, but you get £10 off anything you buy that evening,’ she explains. ‘I can’t believe Selfridges are giving us money!’ I say, thrilled. I’m going to buy one of those enormous Grey Goose Vodka bottles you get in nightclubs, and pretend it’s normal size and that I’m a tiny person. I think this will work better as a surprise, so I don’t tell my friends. (Also I do not want them to steal my idea). As we enter the Selfridges Wonder Room I notice they have only 2 enormous bottles of Grey Goose Vodka.
I congratulate myself on my discretion, and go to buy our tickets. ‘That’s £5 each then please,’ the lady tells me. ‘Oh yes,’ my friend explains. ‘We’ve changed it. The tickets are cheaper.’ ‘That’s brilliant!’ I say. My enormous bottle of Grey Goose vodka will basically be free. I am so responsible these days. I decide to call my Grandfather after the master class and let him know. He will be so proud that I have managed to get the world’s largest vodka bottle for free. I am also pretty sure he will find my tiny person act absolutely charming. For the sake of realism, I plan on speaking only in the highest pitch squeak, which is what I imagine a tiny person would sound like to a normal sized person. I quietly practice. ‘Are you alright?’ the ticket lady asks me worriedly. ‘Yes,’ I squeak back at her. I take our tickets, and hand them to my friends. We pass through the barrier, and are offered a cocktail. I enjoy it, but am aware that if it were enormous, and therefore I could pretend to be tiny, I would enjoy it more. I don’t want to be churlish, so I graciously thank the cocktail lady for my ‘reasonably sized cocktail’. ‘I think I’m going to buy something,’ my friend tells me. ‘It’s annoying that we don’t get the £10 off anymore, isn’t it?’ ‘What?’ I say in dismay. ‘Yes, that’s why the tickets were only £5,’ my friend explains patiently. I stomp off to sulk by the wall. On my way there, I notice that in the wall are several miniature bottles of alcohol.
‘I could get those and pretend they were normal sized and that I’m a giant person!’ I think delightedly. I congratulate myself on my adaptability in the face of adversity. I practice my gruffest growl. I notice the ticket lady looking at me, and quietly walk away from the wall. ‘It’s because I’m normal sized,’ I grumble to my friend. ‘No more cocktails for you,’ my friend replies nervously. I think about explaining, but the constant change in register has wrecked my voice. I stand and quietly watch the master class, and wonder how on earth I’d speak if I’d bought both the tiny and enormous bottles of vodka.
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All-Blacks
I’m at the bar, drinking a diet coke. (It’s early and I’m painfully hungover from the night before). My friend comes to join me. 
She is telling me about one of the greatest All Blacks ever, whose name I instantly forget. ‘He played a full game with only one testicle!’ She informs me proudly. ‘Where did the other one go?’ I asked. (I am consistently infuriating to tell stories to. I always focus on exactly the wrong thing. My friend once told me a heart-rending story about her break-up and I interrupted 3 times to ask; 1, what bus she took to meet him and if she thought the number 10 was becoming less reliable, 2, if she thought it would ever be possible to re-create the perfect roundness of an uneaten babybel using just the empty wax cover, and 3, if it had been raining when they broke up. To be fair, I think her exasperation with question number 3 was unwarranted. 
I simply wanted to make an allusion to the kiss in the rain in ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’, and posit that their break-up was the perfect rainy counterpoint to that particular scene. Apparently it was raining, but they were sitting inside. My friend had previously told me this, she reminded me crossly, because I had asked if the butter was in little packs you open yourself or just on a side plate). ‘What do you mean, where did it go?’ My friend asked me, bewildered. ‘Well,’ I explained slowly (one has to be kind to these Antipodeans. They’ve had very few of the advantages we have. Like central heating. Or the ability to correctly pronounce words). ‘You said he played on with only one testicle. But I want to know what happened to the other one. Did it go up inside him?’ My friend looks at me oddly. I explain briefly. ‘One Summer I was playing in a tennis match, and it was the finals, and I drove my forehand straight into the other boy’s testicles, and they went up inside him and he had to go to hospital. Which I was obviously sorry about, and although I was laughing and pointing externally, internally I was very apologetic.’ My friend’s boyfriend raises his head and looks at me despairingly. My friend seems grateful for my interesting adjunct to her story, and continues. (Sometimes Antipodeans express interest in ways that to a less perceptive person could seem dismissive. It is important to remember that they come from a very small island). ‘No, it didn’t go up into him. It twisted, and died.’ ‘It died?’ I ask, aghast. ‘Testicles can die?’ Internally, I begin to reassess my ‘hierarchy of importance in the human body’. Previously, testicles came fairly low down. Obviously they have excellent reproductive uses, but compared to let’s say, the lungs, seem fairly dispensable. ‘Yup. It’s a surgical emergency. If it’s not operated on, a testicle can only live for 6 hours.’ ‘The shelf-life of an injured testicle is 6 hours?’ I ask, helpfully. (Please see my earlier comments on appropriate attitudes towards Antipodeans). ‘Yup.’ ‘But hang on,’ I interject. ‘This guy’s an All Black. A game is only 80 minutes, and at that level, will be played in a city stadium. So reasonably, the operating room will only be 45mins away. And he’s an All Black! Whoever else is on the operating table will be shoved off!’ My friend says nothing. ‘Also,’ I ask politely, ‘Was it raining?’
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I work here
My lovely neighbour once invited my Mother and me to a yoga class. I
was thrilled, because I rarely have an opportunity to wear the
disproportionately expensive ‘Sweaty Betty’ yoga sweatpants I bought
several years ago. (Sheltering from the rain and a remarkably
persuasive salesgirl. I think I thought they came with a toned,
fat-free yoga body, so in fact seemed astonishingly reasonable).
The yoga class exceeded expectations from the beginning. They took
place in a building not more than 10mins walk from my house, but which
I had never noticed. I assume this is because my mind was on more
earthly matters, such as if it would be appropriate to wear my yoga
pants to my friend’s parents’ anniversary dinner. (Obviously I would
make them ‘fancy’ by sticking the odd diamante transfer onto them. I’m
not entirely sure where one buys diamante transfers, but had decided
to ask at a local prep school).
Entering the yoga building for the first time I was asked by the
receptionist if I’d like to purchase a season pass to the centre. I
warmly congratulated myself on my choice of yoga pants, which were
proving to be an excellent investment choice. ‘Look how well I fit in here!’ I whispered excitedly to my Mother. ‘People will probably mistake me for an instructor.’ (To be mistaken for an instructor is one of my life’s greatest goals. I very nearly bought a red ski-jacket for this very purpose. I assumed that people would be so dazzled by the comfortably recognisable red sported so proudly by all European ski instructors that they would not question why I was skiing so oddly).
‘Of course, darling,’ My Mother murmured distractedly. I looked pityingly at her rather ropey looking yoga attire, and tactfully changed the subject. Our neighbour took us upstairs to the yoga studio, and explained that we both needed our own mat. I gently dislodged my Mother from my mat, and strode purposefully to the front of the room. Unfortunately, before I could begin to instruct the class a wiry looking man started gently positioning people and handing out mats. I didn’t pay him too much attention, because I was unconvinced he wasn’t just another participant trying to complete one of his life goals. Unfortunately, the other participants were not as prudent, and had already started following his instructions. I generously joined in. ‘It is important, at this moment, to clear your mind completely,’ He told us. ‘Let your thoughts fall naturally to their deepest point.’
‘What were you thinking about, when we had to sit and think about deep things?’ I asked my Mother afterwards. ‘My nail varnish,’ She replied. ‘I’m sorry?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘Your ‘deepest point’ is ‘nail varnish’?’ My Mother smiled happily. ‘Yes, I think I might try a darker shade next week.’ I glared at her to show my disapproval for her frivolous approach to our yoga class. ‘What were you thinking about, darling?’ She asked me in reply. ‘Well, unlike you,’ I said sternly, ‘I wasn’t preoccupied with superficial fripperies. I was thinking about my ‘Sweaty Betty’ yoga pants. I’m going to buy another pair on the way home. What shade of grey do you think would be most suitable?’ Oddly, my neighbour has not invited us back to her yoga class. But I assume that’s because she’s worried that I’ll be mistaken for the teacher.
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A Perfect Day
‘The thing is,’ my friend begins to tell us sombrely, ‘I feel I am disproportionately happy during the rest of the day. Therefore I like to take this morning time to be a total cow.’ ‘Oh.’ I wonder briefly how long this ‘morning time’ is going to last. I pop out to get a diet coke. I return to see my friend. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask cheerily. My friend ignores me. ‘I’m going to get some water,’ She announces to the room. ‘Oh, could you get me some please?’ My other friend asks. ‘No.’ It’s past 12 o’clock, but it seems my friend is taking her ‘morning time’ extremely seriously. I go for a walk with my other friend. ‘So, you know how we’re sharing a double bed?’ She asks me. ‘Indeed,’ I reply. ‘Would it be at all possible for you to sleep with your face slightly further away from mine?’ ‘Oh.’
I think for a moment. ‘Well, the thing is, I feel my face is disproportionately far away during the rest of the day. So I like to take this ‘sleeping time’ to readjust.’ I’m not certain, but I think between my friend’s ‘morning time’ and my ‘sleeping time’, my other friend is having a splendid day.
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Not a bounty or a milky way
Someone brought in a tub of celebrations yesterday. When I say ‘tub’,
I mean of course those enormous round tins that one used to only be
able to get at Christmas. I’m not blaming their recent all-year
appearance for rising obesity levels, but I am strongly implying it.
(Sort of like Kanye West in ‘Golddigger’).
These perennial Celebrations now have mini Twixes in them. Or so the
box cover suggests- by the time I got to them only Milky Ways and
Bountys were left. (I would very much like it if the term ‘milky way
or bounty’ could enter common parlance to describe people you wouldn’t
usually kiss, but have been known to due to extenuating circumstances.
Like vodka. Or being in a lesbian bar. Or there being no other
chocolate available).
Anyway, I hate Twixes. Let me explain. When I was 13, I was young and
impressionable, and was therefore easily convinced that a French
exchange would be marvellously fun. My natural enthusiasm (which some
might see as bullying) convinced several of my friends to sign up too.
I will force my children to learn the piano, torture them with endless
tennis lessons and shove them into incomprehensible Swiss ski-school
classes, but I will never ever make them go on a French exchange.
The French exchange started with them visiting us. This was perfectly
fine. I put my French exchange in my other bed and carried on as
normal. I explained that my little brother sometimes weed in the
playroom, which is why it smelt odd, and that my little sister hid her
pocket money in a tin next to her bookshelf, in case she found herself
short. I pointed out where the junk food was stored, and encouraged
her to join me and my siblings in the brilliant game of hiding from
our nanny. We had quite a good time together, with trips to
Chessington and the swimming pool and Ken High Street and Camden.
Really, I was a very accomplished 13 year old hostess.
Then it was time for us to go to Marseille. I decided to make life
easy for my French teacher by leaving my passport at home, and
reassuring her that they ‘rarely check on Eurostar’. To be fair to me,
they didn’t. I then merrily cavorted up and down the Eurostar
carriages with my friends wondering loudly what would happen if the
tunnel collapsed. I know teachers aren’t meant to have favourites, but
I think sometimes they can’t help themselves.
We arrived at Marseille and I met my host family for the first time.
They seemed exactly like parents, only French. We went to their
apartment, and I put my stuff in my French exchange’s room. ‘You take
the bed,’ she told me. ‘Oh no,’ I said politely, ‘I much prefer the
floor.’ I waited expectantly for her to protest. ‘OK, great,’ she said
happily. Already, my French exchange’s hosting skills left much to be desired.
After school the next day she invited her best friend over. ‘How nice!’ You might be thinking. ‘She wanted to introduce you to her best friend!’ Well, perhaps, but it was more in the way in which the settlers wanted to introduce cholera to the Aborigines. ‘What is your favourite chocolate bar?’ My French exchange asked me. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Twix?’ My French exchange’s best friend started laughing manically, and popped out to the corner shop. She returned bearing two Twixes, which her and my French exchange ate languidly in front of me. ‘I’m sorry,’ She said. ‘There were only two in the shop.’ Either France has the worst supply lines in Europe, or my French exchange was the meanest person ever. Anyway, the French exchange taught me many things. The absurdity of Stockholm Syndrome, the excellence of baguettes and that really even a Bounty is better than a Twix.
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Everybody needs good neighbours
I’ve been ‘borrowing’ wifi from my neighbours, but to be fair I have also been entering them in a lot of competitions to win free stuff. (I don’t think they’ve won anything yet, but I ticked ‘yes, please do contact me to tell me about other offers’ so they’re sure to be in with a chance.
I just hope I can find a subtle way to let them know that all those promising new emails and letters are thanks to me. I don’t want a big fanfare, obviously, but a little appreciation would be nice). I think my neighbours like living next to me anyway, because I’m fun. I have a rule only to play ‘night music’ in my room, so club anthems blare out from the moment I wake up. (I would highly recommend adopting a similar policy. Brushing one’s teeth is much more interesting if you have a throbbing electro beat to keep time with).
I’m not big on grocery shopping, so I like to pop over to my neighbours when it’s say, lunchtime, and have a quick chat. Other people’s fridges are really very well stocked. It is really best to pick a neighbour with a child for your lunchtime drop in, because then you often receive quite glorious things like chicken dippers and smiley faces. Equally, small children are absolutely brilliant as long as you don’t have to take them home with you. I had a most informative session last week where I was taught how to draw a horse properly. (I had been sloppily forgetting the forelock, and my mane started too low).
That time, I’d popped over before dinner, which is also a very profitable time. The children are rounded up at some pre-ordained yet secret signal, and whisked upstairs for baths and stories. At this point, having carefully folded your much improved horse drawing into your pocket, it is imperative to sigh loudly and say something like, ‘Gosh, I’ve never been so glad for bedtime.’ This will elicit knowing smiles from the other adults, and usually results in a drink being offered.
Clearly a trip to the loo is a critical part of every good neighbourly visit. It’s a chance to replenish not only one’s toilet paper supply, but also to flick through those really expensive, heavy magazines where it’s terribly hard to find anything that isn’t an advert. I can talk to you quite knowledgeably about this month’s ‘Homes and Gardens’, and let me tell you, I certainly did not part with £7.99 to do so.
It is important not to overstay one’s welcome, obviously, so I tend not to stay for dinner. However, I don’t want to be rude, so if it looks really delicious, I will make an exception. Today I entered my neighbours into a competition to win free tickets to Ibiza. I spent the rest of the day with all the windows open, playing the best of Creamfields. You know, to prepare them.
It is quite amazing how well sound travels in a small mews, because when I went over for tea it was just as loud in their kitchen as in mine. ‘Is that yours?’ my neighbours asked. ‘Yes!’ I said enthusiastically. ‘You must get a Bose! Listen to how loud they go!’ They didn’t say anything, so when I got home I signed them up to receive the Bose daily email about their latest products.
It took a while, and the wifi was terribly slow, so tomorrow I’m going to recommend they get a better broadband package. As I said, I think they really like living next to me.
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In which I am laidback with Jarvis Cocker
My friend once saw Jarvis Cocker outside Greggs on Portobello Road. 
I have a much better Jarvis Cocker story, although I very much like that hers puts her coming out of Greggs. Imagine that day- a sausage roll and Jarvis Cocker. Fantastic. My Jarvis Cocker story is somewhat different. I am in Paris, at a bar which is either tremendously cool or utterly horrible. I am trying to decide when I see Jarvis Cocker leaning against the bar. ‘Oh my goodness look it’s Jarvis Cocker!’ I shout indiscreetly to my friends. ‘What?’ ‘Yes, look, by the bar. Next to those drunk girls, but I don’t think he’s with them. I can’t believe it!’ My friends are excited, but in a more discreet fashion. In fact one of them tells me to be quieter, because he’s looking at us. Which is clearly ridiculous, given my shy reticence, so I ignore her robustly. ‘I’m going to go talk to him,’ I announce. ‘Oh God please don’t.’ ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I say, ‘But he’s married. It’s all going to be very innocent.’ ‘That wasn’t what I was thinking at all,’ she grumbles, but I have already walked away.
I want to play it cool, obviously, so I meander sneakily around Jarvis Cocker. I prop myself casually at the bar. I drum my fingers nonchalantly on the bar, and then turn towards Jarvis Cocker. I stare at him, and mumble something incomprehensible. ‘I’m sorry?’ he says politely. ‘Oh HELLO,’ I say, ‘Do you come here often?’ ‘I like it here,’ Jarvis Cocker says quietly. ‘It’s nice and laidback.’ ‘I LOVE THINGS BEING LAIDBACK,’ I shout excitedly. ‘THAT’S THE BEST. I’M REALLY LAIDBACK TOO.’ I am quite delighted that me and Jarvis Cocker have so much in common.
I look round to make sure my friends can see me and Jarvis Cocker getting on so well. They are pointedly ignoring us. I try to subtly gain their attention by raising my left hand (the hand furthest away from Jarvis Cocker) up and down. They don’t look up. Jarvis Cocker looks a little startled. ‘IT”S SO GOOD BEING LAIDBACK WITH YOU,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you,’ he replies bemusedly. We stand in silence for a few seconds.
‘WELL,’ I shout, ‘I’M ACTUALLY NOT HERE ALONE.’ Jarvis Cocker’s eyes widen. He says nothing. ‘I HAVE MY FRIENDS. THEY’RE OVER THERE.’ I point to my table of friends, all who continue to pretend they do not know me. I’m not sure I’m convincing Jarvis Cocker of my popularity. I am aware, however, that the one thing celebrities hate is clingy fans. I therefore decide to take my leave of Jarvis Cocker. I want to stroll away in a laidback fashion, but I can’t help myself. ‘DO YOU COME TO THIS BAR BECAUSE YOU WANT TO LIVE LIKE COMMON PEOPLE?’ Jarvis Cocker smiles ruefully, and I wish suddenly that I had a sausage roll to distract him with. ‘It was very nice to meet you,’ Jarvis Cocker says politely. ‘ME TOO!’ I shout, thrilled. ‘I MEAN, YEAH, COOL. I MEET LOTS OF PEOPLE. I’M VERY LAIDBACK.’
I return to my friends. ‘HE SAID IT WAS NICE TO MEET ME!’ I tell them. ‘YEAH, ME AND JARVIS COCKER ARE FRIENDS NOW.’ I wave at him to show my friends. He doesn’t wave back, but that’s clearly just because he’s so laidback.
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unfashionablylost 