“At least now I know my flaws – no, not flaws; it isn’t my fault – weaknesses.”

“So there are a lot of things that I don’t think are particularly interesting about me, but that other people would probably find fascinating.”

Go on.

“Well I had an eating disorder when I was younger, which my family kind of denied existed. And not having my experiences validated really didn’t help.

Then I had a car accident a couple of years ago, and got quite severe PTSD. And the state I
was in anyway probably didn’t help much.

Freshers isn’t great for anyone, but it was awful for me. Someone only had to drop a glass and I was right back there.”

You don’t think that is interesting?

“No. Some people glamorise that type of thing. But it is just something I have to live with. Just something I deal with on a daily basis.”

But it is getting better, you said?

“Yes. But I’m still worried it will impact on my life. I want to be a journalist and the PTSD will make that hard, I think.”

Tell me more about that.

“I want to find stories. I want to meet people and tell the stories that are being missed.
At the moment, I’m interested in getting the stories of the women activists in Cairo.

I met a Palestinian activist when I was about twelve or thirteen and it completely changed my world.

I met up with her again in Cairo over the summer. She took me to this narrow alley just of Tahrir Square and she showed me this bit of graffiti she had done of a woman in a hijab and high heels, holding pepper sprays and spraying all these men away.

And she just patted me on the back, and said in Arabic: ‘You’ll be alright.’

And then we turned around and there was just this guy masturbating a few metres away against the wall.

And we just looked at each other and laughed so much.

It was so ironic.

There was just this beautiful piece of art, of protest, an then that.

People tell me it is hard being a female journalist in the middle east, but I also think you
get to see things that the middle aged white men don’t.

You get to chat to the women in a way a man never could.

You get to see them with their burkas off, see the clothes underneath, see them gossiping.

When I was in Kashmir, they would tell me about how they felt about the occupation, the protests, what they wanted for their kids.

Nobody is telling those stories.

And I want to tell them.

And I can’t let my PTSD get in the way. But it worries me because it could always happen again.

It’s funny. I told this Palestinian activist about my PTSD. We were both really high – nobody drinks in Cairo – and I was just really emotional.

I told her I was worried about it getting in the way of my being a journalist.

And she just looks at me and says:

‘We all have PTSD here.

And we are all living.

We just carry on.’

And she was right.

At least now I know my flaws – no, not flaws; it isn’t my fault – weaknesses.

And that makes me so much stronger.”

She looks at me.

“So much stronger.”

“There are a hundred and one reasons why I should have stopped.”

Trigger Warning: anorexia and mental illness

“So yeh, um, you have to promise me you won’t tell anybody who I am.”

Obviously.

His eyes flick up to meet mine.

Then away again.

“No but really. I just… I really don’t want…”

He looks anguished.

“I mean, I’ve told two people before and they were okay with it… But.”

It is at about this point that I start to worry.

What on earth has he done?

Oh god if he’s killed someone I haven’t got time for that. I’ve got an essay due.

I force myself to stop being facetious, to focus.

He inhales deeply.

“Okay. So when I was doing my GCSEs. For whatever reason – I don’t know, I guess I just wasn’t feeling
great – I stopped eating.

Obviously my parents weren’t happy. I knew I wasn’t okay. But I wasn’t sure quite in what way.

I think if there had been the stereotype – that boys could get it – then I would have realised.
Eventually I went to the adolescent mental health service which was –”

There is a pause.

He laughs.

“Interesting.”

I laugh slightly too, although I’m not sure why.

“It sounds really stupid but I didn’t actually think that boys could get anorexia. It felt like I was a girl being told I had erectile dysfunction.

And they didn’t help. I kept getting the feeling that all the help I was getting was actually for girls, and they had just tried to adapt it.

Like they would tell me that if I was a girl then my period would have stopped.

I mean, sorry but I’m not particularly precious about my period.”

He laughs, and I join him properly this time.

“But then they told me if I carried on the way I was for a few more weeks I would end up in hospital.

And I knew this would get in the way of my work. That’s what kept me out in the end.

Which sounds awful. There are lots of good reasons why I should have stopped. I was ruining people’s lives. Not just mine. There are a hundred and one reasons why I should have stopped.

But you get into this mindset. It is you against everyone else.”

He shifts slightly in his seat.

“It’s odd. There are people who are my good friends. But they have no idea. If I were to write my life story for the last five years, they wouldn’t recognise any of it.

I don’t blame them. I never tell anyone. That’s the thing about it – you get so good at hiding. I wouldn’t expect them to find out. But it still feels odd.”

I look at him.

He hasn’t been talking to me.

He has been addressing a bit of the table, about half a foot to my right.

And now? You were saying you are on your way to being better?

He nods.

“Yes. I am. It is definitely moving towards the past now. But it hasn’t quite gone.

I’m very good at maths. It doesn’t take much effort to count calories. I still know how many are in
everything, even though I don’t want to.

I was a mess. And arguably still am.

But not nearly as much.

Being here has helped a bit. I didn’t come here to pursue being the best.

I kind of recognised where that had taken me.

I wanted to feel average and feel comfortable being average.

I ran into a girl from school the other day, and she reminded me of a time when I asked to borrow her
calculator to work out my percentage on a test.”

He grin sheepishly at me.

“I didn’t need the calculator. I’d got full marks.

I came here because I wanted to stop being that person. I hate arrogant people.

Do you mind if I add something by the way?”

I shrug.

Of course.

“I’ve never spoken to anyone I didn’t know about this before. So few people know. But I really feel like I would have benefited from knowing about this type of thing when I was a fresher. I want to talk about it so that if someone is where I was they can get help. I’m just not sure I am ready to put my name to it yet.

I think the first thing I would say is that anorexia isn’t the type of thing that can appear or disappear overnight. You don’t go from normal habits straight to eating nothing. Don’t wait until you feel like you have a problem.

Talk to someone. There’s no harm in doing so. You can get anonymous counselling too. Nobody ever has to know. Even if you just go once.

And take some time out. Take however long it takes you to get better. I should have done.

Things have worked out okay but I really should have done.

Finally, you can be a guy and be anorexic.

I’m straight and I’m male and I was anorexic.

Everything in our culture tells you that you can’t be that.

But you can.

You can be anything.

There isn’t a pattern to it.

I know.

I can spot patterns. I’m good at it. It’s what I do.

And there isn’t one.”

“I probably am quite naive. But that’s okay.”

“I genuinely think that if I could think of one thing wrong with my girlfriend, I would break up with her. If I thought she wasn’t kind enough, caring enough, clever enough –sorry, that sounds awful, but you get what I mean.”

I nod, grinning.

“Or like, if I didn’t find her that attractive, or she wasn’t generous enough or interesting enough. But I don’t think any of those things. There isn’t anything. And that’s why I think I can make it work.”

He looks at me.

“Sorry. This must sound really lame.”

I notice that I am still smiling.

No. Actually no. It’s really refreshing actually.

I’m so used to people being quite jaded about love. It’s really wonderful to meet somebody who is so – I
struggle for the word – well, naïve. But not naïve. That sounds like it’s a bad thing.

He grins.

“Oh no, I probably am quite naïve. But that’s okay.”

I watch him carefully.

There is a silence.

Usually I would interject with a question. But I figure that this is his freshers’ week; he is used to awkward silences.

Suddenly I feel very old indeed.

Old, and quite jealous actually.

I don’t think that I’ve been able to idealise someone in that way for years. Certainly not in a romantic way. I do it with friends all the time. Which is something, I suppose.

He continues, unaware of the premature midlife crisis he has triggered.

“I read this thing in The Tab. Something like ‘So you think you are in love with your sixth form boyfriend who is at Sheffield? I give it two weeks.’”

I grimace.

He looks at me.

“Oh no, you wrote that, didn’t you?”

I shrug guiltily.

Er yeh, a little bit.

Oh god, not only am I old and jaded and dead inside, but I’ve dragged this poor romantic boy down with me.

I am a terrible person.

Yeh, well, no, it’s sort of, um. I do know couples who have made it work. I mean…

He grins.

“It’s fine.

I think I need to stop seeing my girlfriend as getting in the way of me having the full Cambridge experience. Although in a way I guess that shows how much I care about her given that we are still together when being at Cambridge is something I have wanted for so long, something that I’ve almost mythologised.”

What do you mean by that?

He looks slightly sheepish.

“My dad went here. My sister too. I’ve heard their stories, visited a lot. I don’t know. I guess I kind of created a mythology about it. People at Cambridge weren’t just extraordinarily clever in my head: they were extraordinarily good looking, good at sport, taller, more exciting than other people.”

I used to think that a bit.

“What happened?”

I shrug.

Well, they let me in.

We fall into silence again, and I look around.

He leans back.

“I’m glad you took me here.”

We are in Granchester Meadows, a self-conscious decision, made with the intent of showing the little fresher something new, something very beautiful, very Cambridge, but also very personal. The decision almost feels a little too self-conscious now.

Why?

“I like it. Obviously a lot of places in Cambridge are beautiful. But I like how you can be here and be seeing exactly what somebody would have seen four hundred years ago.”

I must look confused, because he clarifies.

“So look over there.”

I follow his gaze.

“So there’s nothing in that scene that couldn’t have been there a few centuries ago. It is beautiful.”

He suddenly looks disappointed.

“Oh wait, no. Apart from that chimney.”

I smile.

I hadn’t noticed it.

I look at him.

Tilt your head that way, and you can’t see it.

I suddenly feel even older.

That’s what it is like here, really.

The scene is never quite perfect. Never quite the way you would want it to be, or had expected it to be. Never quite the way that neatly fits the story.

But if you look at in the right way, it is really fucking beautiful.

I laugh as I say this. And he laughs too.

Because of course what I am saying is a little ridiculous.

Sort of.

It’s like you are clinging on to the edge of the world, and at any moment you could fall off.

“I had a really bad summer. And I didn’t want to come back. But now Cambridge seems a bit like a safe place, away from all of that.”

Tell me more?

She smiles.

“When you tell people you are on antidepressants, they don’t know what to say. So they come out with stuff like ‘But you’ve always seemed so happy and bubbly’. And you say yes, I have, and that’s still me. But this is me too. I can be both.

Or they tell you that they don’t think you should be on medication – ‘I get upset sometimes too’. And you have to say, yes. Yes, I get upset too. But I also have this. They are two different things.

People don’t understand mental illness, and when you talk to them about it their perception changes of you. Which makes me less willing to talk about it. And this keeps the stigma in place.”

Her tone is light, engaging, gossipy almost.

There is something about the way that she holds herself, the way she talks, that makes her the type of person that you instantly want to be friends with – the girl at the party that everyone somehow gravitates towards.

She grins.

“You just have to battle on, I guess.

Cambridge is particularly bad for it. It is very one size fits all.”

I suggest that the atmosphere that perpetuates itself here is pretty unhealthy.

She nods.

“I know. They make you feel like it isn’t acceptable to miss lectures if you need to go to hospital or something. I wanted to come back to college early, so that I could familiarise myself with the hospital here, feel safe, get my safety net in place. College wouldn’t let me because I didn’t have a genuine academic reason. I ended up telling them that if I had to drop out that would be pretty bad academically. It was only then that they let me.

My tutor always talks about how I might damage my future. What he doesn’t understand is that when things are bad, I’m not thinking about my future: it’s just about getting through the day.

The way I described it to my parents was that it’s like you are walking down a dark lane, and there’s a small light ahead, but then it goes out, and you can’t see anything. It’s like you’re clinging on to the edge of the world, and at any moment you could fall off.

I used to do my work to block it out, to feel better. Then I got together with my boyfriend, and he was so lovely and I found another way of making it better by spending time with him. Even though we aren’t together anymore, he made me realise that there are other things than work that can make me feel better. So now I have to learn to work because I want to, because I’m interested and want to do well. It’s new.”

We chat idly for a bit, covering anything and everything in a way that I always seem to do when I meet someone whom I instantly click with.

Somewhere along the way, she tells me that she feels like people in Cambridge can often seem to base a lot of their self-esteem on achievement, on being the best. She tells me that she doesn’t do this. That she is happy to do the best she can.

I tell her that I too am not very competitive at all, but that in my case this is more to do with laziness than anything else.

She laughs.

“And the thing is, someone’s achievements aren’t the bit that is really them. People see a person, and they see president of this, captain of that, they guy with the first, the life and soul of the party. They don’t see the part that sometimes lies in bed all day, because getting up is just too hard.

Yes, he’s all of those things. But he’s not just those things. He’s him as well.”

“I’m quite jealous of your world, really.”

“I don’t think the same things scare me about it that scare other people. I’m not particularly nervous about the workload, or about meeting people. I’m more scared because I’ve spent the past few years working so hard to build something and now I’m back at square one.

I’m also not worried about not being the smartest. I don’t define my identity by being the smartest. I went to a school where I wasn’t, so instead I developed my personality around being really nerdy.”

He pauses and grins at me.

“But in an awesome way.”

Another pause.

“Or so I’d like to think, at least.”

He suddenly looks at me.

“Do you keep a diary?”

I frown, confused by the non sequitur.

No, I don’t. I’ve tried but I’m too lazy.

Why? Do you?

“Yes, I do. It takes up a lot of my time. But I’m starting to think that when I get to university I
should live my life, not write about it.”

I dismiss this, telling him that writing is a perfectly decent way to spend your time, that by writing you are living your life.

I tell him that I admire his drive – I can never be bothered to write anything if it doesn’t have an
audience.

“Oh no,” he says earnestly. “I have an audience too.”

He looks slightly embarrassed.

“I pretend I’m writing to entertain a robotic toaster.”

I lean forward.

His voice is quiet and I can’t quite hear him over the chatter that is filling the café that we are sitting in.

What was that, sorry?

“I said I’m writing to entertain a robotic toaster.”

Hang on, sorry. I misheard again. I thought you said…

“Oh no. I did.”

He grins cheerfully.

I like him.

“I guess I like writing because I like being alone. I read something recently which said that you can tell an introvert from an extrovert by where they get their energy from. I think I’m definitely an introvert then. All my energy come from being alone.”

I consider this, and tell him that if this is the case, then I am certainly an extrovert.

I don’t actively despise being alone, but it gives me no energy whatsoever. Very little happens when I am alone. I am always seeking out other people’s company.

I tell him that I suppose that the only big thing that I really do alone is write.

He looks carefully at me.

“But you said you write for an audience, right? So you aren’t really alone. You are still talking to people. You just can’t see them yet.”

God. Yeh. You’re right actually. I don’t do anything alone. Wow.

I stare at my coffee.

“Sorry.” He ventures.

No. No. Really, don’t be sorry. It’s just I’ve never looked at it that way. It’s interesting.

Wow.

There is a pause.

“Do you mind if I ask a question?”

I indicate with a jerk of my head that this will be fine.

“Well, it’s not really a question. It’s more… In your blog, a lot of the stories are quite sad. A lot of the people talk about how Cambridge is really stressful, and complain about it.

But then all the way through, there’s this undercurrent of affection that you have, that the people you interview have.

You make it sound so wonderful. I’m quite jealous of your world really. It’s like a fairytale.”

I had come here expecting to do the whole wise second year thing: to give the guy some hard won advice on making it through your first year at university.

Instead, I find that I am the one who being taught.

I consider my first year at Cambridge.

I think of all the time that I spent tired, stressed, drunk or ill over the past year.

I imagine if you added up all the time during term that I was none of those things, you would get a sum total of about two weeks. If that.

And then I consider how I look back at my time in Cambridge.

How all I remember is a vague sense of overwhelming happiness, of being home, of being surrounded by people who make me happier than I have any reasonable right to expect.

How all I remember is the fairytale, I guess.

If you were inclined to put it that way.

He repeats his last words.

“Yeh, I’m quite jealous of your world.”

I grin at him.

It’s not my world.

It’s your world now.

And it’s going to be extraordinary.

I’ve always been sharp. I’m not much else, but I’m sharp.

“So I don’t know how this will work, because usually the people you interview seem to have something they are burning to tell you, but I don’t particularly.”

I look at him awkwardly.

That’s okay. It usually doesn’t work that way.

I can ask questions. There will always be things that I want to know.

“Like what?”

I’m not sure.

Maybe start by telling why you don’t have an urge to talk about anything in particular.

He grins.

“Hmm. Well it’s either that there isn’t anything, or that there is, but I would find it really awkward and horrible to talk about.”

I look him straight in the eye, wondering if I can push him.

He looks expectantly at me, grinning slightly.

Something tells me that I can.

So what would I have to ask you about to make you feel awkward?

He pauses for a moment, looking slightly shifty, then quickly reels his answer off.

“Drugs. Sex.”

A pause.

“My family, I suppose.”

I shrug.

You’ve told me about your family before.

He narrow his eyes in confusion.

You were drunk, I offer as explanation.

“Ah. Well actually I guess I’m usually okay with talking about that. I can kind of turn it into a joke.”

I grin.

That’s how I deal with everything. I haven’t said anything sincere in years.

A pause.

So tell me about drugs then.

I expect some resistance. I don’t get any.

“Oh, so when I was sixteen/seventeen, I smoked a lot of weed. It isn’t something I really feel is part of me. It isn’t something I associate myself with.

I remember once being in the car with my mum, and she said I was looking a bit dopey.”

I laugh.

“I know, that was it. That exact word. And it scared me. Because I have always been sharp. I’m not much else, but I’m sharp. And it terrifies me how close I came to losing that.

I mean, you look at someone like Hunter S. Thompson, and he did all these drugs and then met all these interesting people and produced these great novels about his experiences. And people always say that the drugs unleased his creativity, but I’m not sure. I can’t help but wonder what he would have been able to produce without them, whether he would have been sharper.”

I nod, not quite sure where to take this.

And sex?

He laughs, but then looks quite distressed.

“Oh, you know I used to sleep around a lot.”

There’s nothing wrong with sleeping around.

My response is only slightly too quick, only slightly too aggressive.

He looks closely at me.

“Oh no, there isn’t. That’s not what I meant.

What I meant is that I used to mess around a lot.

People would get hurt. Particularly in Cambridge. It is such a small world: things come back and hurt people.

Again, it doesn’t really feel like it is part of me. But in a way it became part of me because it became part of the way people saw me. I didn’t like that.

I never wanted to be one of those guys who goes around bragging about the girl he shagged last night. I mean, that’s a person you are talking about. They have this whole life. They… You know… They like coffee and things.”

He looks hopefully at me, not sure if I get what he means.

I do get it.

There’s something about the coffee that makes me get it.

I nod, and he carries on.

“I don’t like the idea that people know things about my sex life. I realised recently that I’m a very private person. My ex pointed it out to me.

If I have a very serious problem, I might talk it through. But mostly if I’m just sad I will lock myself away for a day and listen to Radio 4.”

Later, I sit down to write up our conversation.

As I look at my notes, I notice that I have scribbled things on a lot of different topics, but there is nothing in depth about anything particularly personal.

I remember how earlier in the evening he told me that people often accuse him of being a master of evading questions.

Too late, I realise that they are right.

I find myself wanting to call him back, to get some answers. But I know that I have missed my chance.

As I stare at my computer screen, I remember how he also told me that it interests him that I always seem very sympathetic to the people I interview.

At the time, I told him that it is impossible not to be sympathetic, that I feel a great deal of affection for everyone I interview. But that perhaps sometimes I let people get away with too much.

So for once, here’s me, despite – and perhaps because of – having a huge deal of affection for him, not letting him get away with it.

You know who you are.

I’ll see you in a few months.

Then, you can tell me about all those things that you had no particular burning desire to talk about.

“At the moment I’ve got no goals, no ideas.”

“Eurgh. Sorry I’m late.”

I watch as she throws her bag and coat onto the chair opposite me, before slumping down next to them.

I push one of the two gin and tonics on the table towards her.

She eyes it, glaring.

After a slight pause, I offer her mine as well.

Here, I think you might need this more than I do.

She laughs, pushes my glass away and finishes her own in a few gulps.

“Oh god. Never graduate. Just don’t do it.”

I laugh too.

Don’t encourage me.

“No, I mean it. Stay in for as long as you can. Do a masters. Do a PhD. Do anything that keeps your brain working for longer.

She pauses and fishes the lime out of her drink, piercing it with an immaculately polished nail.

“I haven’t used my brain in ages. I haven’t had a conversation where I’ve had to think in ages.”

She suddenly looks guilty.

“Can I say that? I can’t say that, can I? I’m a dick if I say that.”

I laugh.

I don’t think I’m here to be the judge of what you can and cannot say.

She smiles.

“Fair enough. It’s just, you spend all these years training your brain, honing it, revelling in how fast you can force it to move. It all feels like it is building to something. It’s what you’ve been doing all your life: gradually improving your mind. You can’t imagine life any other way.

And then suddenly you graduate, and you don’t need that brain anymore. I feel like I am letting my education down. Like my education is letting me down. My job, most jobs, are just glorified admin. All that training. All those “transferable skills”, and most of us end up with admin.”

Why don’t you do something else then?

She looks at me carefully.

“I don’t know. I guess I don’t have anything that I’m desperate to do. I’ve always been jealous of people who know. I remember once, when I was a first year actually, I suddenly decided I wanted to be a vet.”

I snort with laughter, struggling to think of a more incongruous profession for the perfectly turned out, red lipsticked and designer suited woman sitting opposite me.

She grins.

“I know, right? But then I realised that actually, I wasn’t jealous of my vet friend because she was a vet; I was jealous because she had something to do that she loved. Learning all the animal anatomy and shit wouldn’t have made me happy. Staying up all night with some puss ridden cow certainly wouldn’t. I was just insanely jealous that she knew what she wanted to do and would always wake up wanting to go to work.

I’ve never had that. And that wouldn’t be a problem, if only I could work out what job would give me that, because then I could work towards it. I’ve got no problem at all with hard work, so long as I have a goal. But at the moment, I’ve got no goals, no ideas.”

I flounder for something to say.

I consider breaking out some half remembered facts from an article I once read in the New Statesman, about how hard it is to get a decent vet job, and how disappointing the career path can be.

I decide against this, on the basis that it spectacularly misses the point.

Will it get better once you have been promoted a couple of times, once you have some responsibility?

She half laughs, half sighs.

“I hope so. That’s what they tell me. But then, that’s what they tell everyone. And I can’t help wondering if they just keep telling you it until the day you die.

Keep everyone on the treadmill. Keep creating more made up, self-sustaining industries which do nothing but generate capital. And then tell the people managing them that if they work hard enough, if they just try, then one day, maybe, it will all mean something.”

I grin.

Wow. That got a bit deep.

She laughs.

“Yeh. I guess it did a bit. Believe me, nobody is more surprised by that than I am.”

“You know those moments that you are sure are going to be part of a story one day?”

“I’ve heard people say that anyone who thinks that university was the best time of their life is some kind of tragic drinking society lad who peaked too soon, and spent the rest of his life in corporate drudgery. Those people are dicks. Of course university can be one of the best times of your life: when are you ever again going to have that much freedom, that little responsibility, that many interesting people around to talk to? I’m not saying that the rest of my life won’t be good too, but really the last three years have been special.”

Do you miss it?

He frowns.

“You know, I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve had time to work that out yet. I’ve got incredibly lucky in that I have a really decent job that I enjoy, so there’s always something in the future to be looking forward too. I’ve always known what I want to do, and that makes me fairly lucky. Most people have no idea, and they’re a bit lost.”

I glare at him.

He starts, and backtracks furiously.

“Oh god, no. No I didn’t mean you. I mean, you’re not lost. I mean…”

He looks at me sheepishly.

I laugh.

It’s fine. A little lostness never hurt anybody.

He smiles.

“In a way I envy you. It must be nice to wander a bit. I spent my whole time at university working towards a goal. You get to flit around.”

I consider this, and eventually decide to assume that he is being nice, use of the word “flit” aside.

We both pause for a moment, and sip the coffees that he has bought with his real-adult income.

“To be fair, I did my fair share of flitting myself. Cambridge is a good place for that.”

What do you mean?

“I mean it gives you the chance to forget yourself, to cut loose.

I remember once, we had been at the pub and I got chatting to a friend of a friend. When the place closed, we went and sat on Jesus Green. Before I really knew it, it was morning and all sunrisey and just about the most perfect thing that you’ve ever seen. It felt like everything I am, everything I was worried about, every obligation had just drifted away. You know those moments that you are sure are going to be part of a story one day? Yeh, it was one of those.”

He shakes his head.

“Of course, I paid for it later. Work was an absolute nightmare on that little sleep.”

I suppress a laugh, resisting the urge to mock him for his nerdiness, aware that I am secretly a more than a little jealous of his drive.

And what about this person you were with? Are you still friends?

He looks searchingly at me.

“No… No we aren’t really. It’s weird, on the surface she and I have absolutely nothing in common. I mean, she’s all loud and I’m, well, I’m me. I don’t know if we would have anything to talk about if we met again. It was just one of those weird conversations, the type that only happen at three in the morning, where you realise that actually on a more fundamental level you have everything in common. But that’s not enough to actually build a friendship on, I don’t think. You need shared interests and stuff as well.”

I grin.

I’m loud. You get on with me.

He laughs.

“Yeh, but you’re also really lame.”

He dodges my half-hearted punch.

“You’re also lucky though. You’ve still got two years there. At our age, that’s forever. And if there’s one place I wouldn’t mind spending forever, Cambridge might be it.”

“People don’t come to us as blank canvases. We have to understand that.”

“So here’s the thing that I think.”

She pauses and throws an accusing glare at me over her coffee.

“Do you actually want to hear what I think?”

I laugh.

Yes, I actually do, as it so happens.

She grins at me.

“Okay. You know that makes you quite weird, right?”

I return her grin.

Oh yes. You are far from the first person to have made that observation.

“Why do you want to know?”

I shrug.

I like people. I find things interesting. I’ve got time to fill before work. Take your pick.

Silence.

I look expectantly at her.

So go on then.

Tell me things. I can’t judge you. I’m weird, remember.

She laughs.

“Okay, so I have a grand theory of everything.”

Oh god.

“Exactly.

Basically, from my experience, relationships always fail for the same reason.

When we first start seeing someone, we present the best version of ourselves, the version want them to see, the version we would want to be. They do the same, so that is how we see them.

We only see what they choose to present, but we see the whole of ourselves. And this skews things.

We start trying to work out their motives, their emotions, what they want.

We assume that they are logical, logical in a way that we have never been, because that is the type of person they have presented.

But they aren’t. They are just as messed up inside as we are, just as illogical. But we don’t see it. So we don’t understand them properly, and from that point on it is doomed.”

Wow. That’s bleak.

She smiles.

“Not really. I reckon it is also where love comes from. We see the other person as perfect, and ourselves as flawed. We idolise them, want to be near them, want them to love us in return and in doing so raise us up to be like them. It is beautiful.”

I frown at her.

I’m not sure, I tell her. I think you are talking about infatuation.

Love, real love, wonderful rush-home-after-10-years-of-marriage love, horrific lie-in-bed-all-day-because-it-feels-like-your-heart-has-been-injected-with-molten-steel-which-has-then-solidified-and-weighs-you-down love, that type of love comes when you see past the perfect façade, when you see the person behind it, damage and all.

When you can see everything that is wrong someone and still love them, not despite of but because of it. When you are desperate to know their history better than anybody else has ever done, to know it so that you can protect them, save them, understand them.

But also to know it for its own sake, because just to know means everything.

Then you are in trouble. Then it has hit you bad.

She nods.

“I think you are right actually.

And I think if we all realised that things would be a lot better.

We need to understand that people don’t come to us as blank canvases. We have to understand that. They are products of every other relationship they have had. Everyone who has hurt them or helped them.

I worry sometimes that my past relationships have damaged me to the extent that I am impossible to love. Worse, I worry that they have changed me so that I can no longer love.

I shouldn’t worry like that. Everybody has a history. I’m not the only one who is messed up. I just need to remember that everyone else is like me.”

She pauses, thinking.

“Yeh. That is what my grand theory of everything should be, actually: that we are all the same really, and would all be so much better off if we realised that.”

I grin broadly.

That’s quite a coincidence.

It’s really quite funny that you should say that, actually.

She looks at me, confused.

I look at her.

She raises her eyebrows.

“What?”

I look at her, wondering where to start.

So I have this blog, right…

“I’m starting to wonder if I’m tired of being convenient.”

“I’m fine with it. It’s convenient. But I’m starting to wonder if I’m tired of being convenient. It all starts to feel the same after a while. Does that make sense?”

She flicks her cigarette, and we both watch as the ashes float down to the ground some three storeys below. We are sitting on the roof of her flat, staring out across the dark street below.

There is a similar place to sit at my flat, only at mine there is a ledge in place on which you can balance your feet. Here, there is just a sheer drop.

I shift uncomfortably, and notice that my hands are clutching the ledge that I am sitting on slightly more tightly than is usual.

Yeh. That makes a lot of sense.

“I was with someone, kind of February time, for a couple of weeks. He had just broken up with a really long term girlfriend, so things were a bit weird: we were very couple-y. Obviously things didn’t work out, but I really liked it and it made me realise that maybe that is actually what I want.

I’m just not sure I can make that leap. I don’t know if I trust anyone with my feelings. Do you know what I mean?”

I laugh, and tell her that for me it is more that I’m not sure that I trust myself with anybody else’s feelings.

I’m a pretty awful person, I joke. I wouldn’t want to date me.

She grins at me.

“Oh my god, it’s like you are describing my life!”

For a few minutes, we gabble frantically at each other, our words overlapping, confirming each other’s prejudices,
encouraging each other’s previously unspoken thoughts.

I look at her with the wild excitement of somebody who has found their soul mate.

Then I laugh.

This isn’t good for us. We are just confirming each other’s fucked up worldviews.

She grins.

“Yeh, you’re right. We are the normal ones. Everyone else is weird.”

She takes a deep drag on her cigarette, then exhales.

I watch the smoke drift away in the light of a nearby streetlamp.

“I need to stop getting with my friends though. It just ruins things, makes them awkward. And then we can never talk about it, so it just bubbles under, getting in the way.”

She sighs.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this. It always seems like a good idea at the time, but I just feel awful afterwards.”

My eyes snap open.

I look closely at her.

She has used almost exactly these words to me before, a couple of days ago when she was telling me about her one experience of taking MD.

She had taken it when already drunk – don’t try that at home, like really – and had spent most of the night incoherent and throwing up.

But this wasn’t what scared her. What scared her was that when she was lying in bed the next day, on a massive comedown, feeling worse than she had ever felt, all she could think of was how she wanted to take the drug again, because nothing on earth felt like it did, and for the five minutes when it was working, it seemed to be worth everything else that came with it.

It occurs to that I have expressed this sentiment before, but that I wasn’t talking about drugs.

I briefly wonder whether there is some illuminating metaphor that I can draw between love and drugs.

Then I realise that this has already been done, and done several times, that even Ke$ha got to this one before me.

It occurs to me that if I must be pretentious, I should probably at least try to be original and pretentious.

So instead I release my vice-like grip on the ledge, and offer her a swift sideways hug.

I’m so glad I met you.

She grins.

“Me too.”