That friend - we all have her. She's louder, funnier, and cooler than you, and when she first extends the branch of friendship to you (you're still a bit chubby, and have braces) you can't believe she picked you. But somehow, it works perfectly. You seem to share thoughts, you finish each other's sentences, and you become known as somewhat of a double act. Your names become synonymous. She is the one you turn to with life's most pressing issues:
"What should I study at University? Chinese, or English Literature?"
"What do I do about this boy that I like?"
And most importantly:
"Do you think we could eat 50 chicken nuggets each in one sitting?"
(The answer, in case you were wondering, is yeah we could.)
This is Fran. One of my best friends, I once described us as being "like Ying and Yang." A friend laughed at this, and said, "She's not the Ying to your Yang, she's more like the Mentos to your Diet Coke". This is because, when Fran and I get together, we are somewhat known for wreaking havoc. And having a brilliant time doing it.
Although we're really similar, there are also some glaring differences between Fran and I, especially style-wise. I suppose I'm somewhat "trendier" than her, with my little bob etc, where as Fran is more classically "sexy", and has the confidence to go out dressed like sex on a stick (I really, really envy her this.) Last night, she convinced me to wear the skimpiest dress that I owned, and we went to Cuckoo in Swallow Street, where we were given free champagne all night, and I felt very tatty with my wonky fringe and chipped nails, compared to the professionally blow-dried, shellaced beauties surrounding me. Unfortunately I don't have a proper outfit picture to show you, all of them look like this:
|(i.e. TOTALLY DISGRACEFUL - and no, I don't know who he is. I don't know why I'm showing you this, truly I don't)|
However, I did accessorise last night with my fanciest handbag. Ladies, meet my Chanel. She's a pearl embellished 2.55, and was purchased in 2008, the summer I left school, in Venice (my favourite city in the World), with Fran, no less.
Isn't she a beauty? I rarely take her out as she's so special, but she's guaranteed to class up the most questionable of outfits, and it's an amazing feeling to know that you can be in one of the fanciest clubs in London, and still, your handbag is your favourite in the room.
We spent the night dancing like loons, singing Rockaoke, and drinking far, far too much champagne. This morning, we scraped ourselves out of bed and pottered through Holland Park to Charlie's in Portobello, where we managed to partially cure our horrendous hangovers, aided by eggs benedict and lattes. We then soaked up the rays in the park for a while (it's the First of March and it really feels like Spring has sprung!) I then returned to Manchester with the intention of hitting the books, but frankly I'm just feeling too unwell and have given myself the day off.
So this post goes out to Fran (who's also one of the only friends who knows about, and actually reads my blog). I may be feeling awful, but there's no one on Earth I'd rather spend a hangover day with. And you dance like a rock star.