There are few things in life more alarming than an unexpected knock at the door when you’re not expecting anybody. Your brain goes through every possibility in under two seconds: Delivery? Neighbour? Bad news? Somebody asking if you’ve “thought about changing broadband provider”? And then there he was. Straight from Toulouse. Just standing there with that cute smile like appearing unannounced across countries is perfectly normal behaviour. No warning. No “are you in?” No “fancy company?” Just suddenly… there.
Which would have been far more stressful had I not, by some miracle of fate, done a tidy-up yesterday – not because I’m naturally organised. My house cleaning style is usually best described as “strategic avoidance with bursts of panic.” But yesterday I’d had one of those nesting moods where you suddenly decide your entire environment needs sorting immediately or civilisation itself may collapse. Thank God for that instinct. Because there is no greater feeling than opening the door unexpectedly and realising your house looks like a functioning adult lives there.
Candles? Fine. Bathroom? Clean. Kitchen? Respectable. Random washing pile on chair? That can be hidden in the utility. Psychological stability? Debatable, but hidden well.
And suddenly there we were, sat chatting, laughing, opening my stash of Carambar sweets like two kids with absolutely no concern for dental integrity, while knowing tomorrow’s away game against RC Toulon is going to be emotionally exhausting.
Because away to Toulon is never relaxing, is it? It’s the rugby equivalent of voluntarily entering a stress-management workshop run by pirates. It’s that “pilou pilou” moment… He already knows tomorrow will involve: shouting at referees, deep tactical discussions no professional coach asked for, dramatic sighing and at least one moment where my heart stops beating.
Which is why the best kind of friendship is the one that understands exactly who you are without needing any explanation. The friends who know you’ll pretend to be calm during kick-off while internally operating at the emotional stability level of a caffeinated squirrel. That friend who know you like a hand to hold during the tense moments watching the lads play – not for attention or drama, but just because sometimes sport becomes oddly emotional and human beings are not actually designed to experience eighty minutes of sustained panic alone.
And the older you get, the more you realise those friendships are rare. Not the polished friendships people perform online. The real ones, the ones who feel comfortable from the moment they turn up at the door unannounced and immediately feel at home” ones. The people who accept you exactly as you are: slightly chaotic, over-invested in rugby and big enough that you squeezing their hand to death is just par for the course… No sweat !!
