I met Sam at the gym. I’m a little older. But we get along. Sam’s nice.
I go to Sam Gym on a Saturday morning. Everybody pairs up so that ten groups of two jump around as duos, panting from ski machines to rowing machine to bike. Then, we all run a kilometre or two. This lasts for an hour and Sam and I pair up every week. I’m not sure why we partner. We just do. In the early weeks, Sam and I would look at each other across the gym and make a ‘uh?’ noise. This meant, ‘shall we?’ And we did.
So last week, when I wasn’t going to be able to make the Saturday, I texted Sam separately from the WhatsApp group to say I’d be away. Sam responded. Which was nice.
I’ve not thought much about making new friends since the terrifying threshold of uprooting from a small primary school to a big secondary school, aged 11. Or uprooting from Manchester to Derby aged 13. Or uprooting from Derby to Newcastle aged 18. However, even though no roots were upped on this occasion, there are echoes.
Sam works in recruitment. I write. We’re very different, I sense. I saw Sam at The Grateful Bread in Hexham one week. We queued for buns. Sam has a dog that looks like a greyhound but isn’t a greyhound. And a bike.
I don’t think I have to actually ask Sam if he’s my friend. In the same way I remember asking a ten year old Shirley Frost if she was my girlfriend. (I was ten when Shirley was ten, by the way. I should mention). The rules of Shirley friend, and Sam friend, are not the same. Still, there are echoes.
How do we choose friends? Especially as we get older. How do we get chosen as friends? I understand recruitment. I understand Friends Reunited and Dating Direct and Match and Tinder. Or at least I did. I can choose a dog. And I can choose cakes and clothes and holidays. Maybe we sense friends, rather than choose friends. Timing and trajectory must play a part, as well.
Family. Partners. Dogs. Work colleagues. Friends. Not all these relationships are the same, of course. But there are echoes.