I was seven. My best friend was Elise Dale. My only friend; was Elise Dale. We would use her mum’s sarongs as wings, flying across her suburban backyard- I was a Lorakeet in red and green. We deduced that Elise should use the white sarong, and be a Cockatoo. Her long blonde hair was the deciding factor; a perfect supplement for a golden crest. We would listen in awe as her older sister, Kate, would describe for us the subjects of the posters adorning their shared walls. “Some people call him Kurt Cocaine..” she would say “because he does so many drugs.”
We were half way through second term when I came down with the chicken pox. Three weeks, off school. Upon my return to school, Elise contracted the disease, and had the next three weeks off school, rendering me friendless. My mum still tells the story of my misery. Melancholy in a seven year old: a slightly disturbing quality.
I have had many similar relationships since Elise Dale. I have the constants in my life- the ones I know will be there forever, but I always seem to be spending the majority of my time with one person, for a period of time.
Elise, Kia Wilson, Jenny Hill, Lauren Welch, Lauren Dickson, Rhiannon Harsh, Marissa James, Amber Lang, Sarah Leeds, Alannah Lopez, Sarah Marks and Rachel.
My friend Rachel left for Europe on Thursday. She’s gone for three weeks, and whilst I’m no longer seven and it hasn’t rendered me melancholic- it has made me curiously aware of my tendencies to put my friendly eggs in one basket.
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