Manchester, Facebook and Mush

Its early afternoon - what some people would call “broad daylight”, I am watching my one of my oldest friends, Phil
build a tower of garden furniture to reach a ludicrously high window while I try to get the phrase “spinal trauma” out of my head. I’ve only been in Manchester 24 hours and already I’m breaking into a house. Dramatic eh? Actually not that much, it’s my friend’s house and we locked ourselves out while on a mission to buy beer and pasta. Being the resourceful Englishmen that we are we put our heads together and come up with what I like to think is an elegant solution; we stash the shopping and go to the pub.

I find it interesting that I am only in Manchester visiting Phil because of Facebook. Facebook’s intention seems to be to keep people in touch with friends and help people get reacquainted with friends they perhaps they don’t see as much anymore, so far so fluffy. But I find it does this only cosmetically, sure I have exchanged a few cursory message with my supposed long lost friends; “wow great to hear from you etc…….what you up to blah…..me? I’m a weapons inspector for the UN now… blather” and yes of course I have trawled through their photos but once that is done the guilt is assuaged. And isn’t that a big part of this? To relieve the guilt? Tiny drips of pseudo-contact methadone to wean us off face to face crack.

Phil doesn’t have a Facebook account, and I’m glad of it. Otherwise I may have been happy to pass the odd quipy pleasantry, watch his status update and pat myself on the back rather than get off my arse and travel the few hours it takes to hug for real, eat his food and scare his neighbors. its Facebook's fault here, but only because i didn't want him to become just another square in my "friends" box.

On the coach home (I assure you no expense spared spent) I can see lilac and bruise purple clouds crowding an orange strip of skyline in an otherwise summer blue sky, a song on my MP3 player comes on and jangles my memory and reminds of friends gone, some by choice, some by circumstance, most by bloody bad luck and the vicious specter of fate. I suddenly feel very tired, the sky make me want to cry and writing in my battered leather notebook is a way of stopping it, a way of adding a layer of language in between my raw nerves and reality. I was once told that in life you will become friends with many people, some will stay forever, some will go, and some may even come back again. I was told its no use getting upset about the ones that leave, it’s only ever sad when you don’t learn the lessons they were sent to teach you.




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