I met her last February. On a Tuesday. I disliked her almost instantly; rolling my eyes as she waxed lyrical about a recent argument with her husband, I decided she was brusque and mouthy. I briefly contemplated asking her if she'd like a coffee but decided against it, preferring instead to imagine repeatedly slamming her head in the photocopier. Two birds with one stone: an act of mindless violence with the added bonus of a warm, satisfying stack of keepsake copies of the attack to thumb through at my leisure.

It appeared the feeling was mutual, she later told me she originally had me down as "an uptight, foul-mouthed ice queen". I don't know how on earth she came to that conclusion and fully intended to tell the bitch to fucking well fuck right off only there were people watching and, y'know, I didn't want to lose control in public or anything. They might have stared at me.

It's funny how wrong a person can be. Meaning me, obviously. Forget mouthy, she instead proved herself to be warm, funny and welcoming; taking this uptight, foul-mouthed ice queen under her wing.

Eighteen months isn't that long a period of time. At least it isn't in the grand scale of things. True, it's about three times the length of the average boy band career. And I suppose if the hairs on my legs were left to cultivate for a year and a half....well, let's just say The Hendersons would be filling up their petrol tank with glee and excitedly revving their engine in the prospect of running me over. But, for a friendship, eighteen months isn't all that long is it? You don't have the 'we've known each other since we were kids' element or that 'remember that night during Freshers Week when you vomited into a fishtank? You killed an eel' factor.

No real sense of reminiscence. No vast shared history. No 'remember that?' or 'where are they now'? And maybe that's what was so lovely about it. Maybe the newness, the freshness, the recency of it all refreshed us both.



It was ten months ago that she found out she was ill. On a Tuesday.

Four months ago when it was confirmed that she would die. I can't remember what day it was she told me. Just the static sound of the phone. And a metallic taste in my mouth.

My role, especially since things became serious - ironically, was of the clown. She had so many serious conversations ith her husband, her son, her parents, her doctors. So many things to put into place. So I was summonsed occasionally to tell her her new hairdo was less Mia Farrow and more Charles Hawtrey. To tell her to stop being such a malingerer. To ask whether MRSA was a division of the Russian military. Or just to generally gawp at doctor's bottoms. Those women should really wear longer skirts, especially with so many weak-hearted blokes cluttering up the place.

See. Clowning I can do.

And then it stopped being funny.


I said goodbye on a Wednesday. Yesterday. Although neither of us acknowledged it, we knew this would be The Last Time. The last time we would speak. The last time we would spend together.

There's a danger of painting a dying person as saintly. Celestial. An angel.

Well, she isn't.She's as fucked up as the rest of us. Always talking instead of listening. Usually late. Occasionally surly. And, my god, I will miss all that more than I can ever say.

I will miss her.

I don't want to have to refer to her in the past tense.



Her name is Tania. She's 29. And I met her on a Tuesday