Overheard

The One Where We Declare War on Picky Bits, Shared Pret Salads and Adult Board Games

This week's post is a little different. It's the first in a new regular collab with my mate and fellow writer, Dominique Afacan , who you must immediately subscribe to for her brilliant weekly newsletter, Nesting. She's bloody funny, clever and straight-talking. We have an ongoing conversation that one of us picks up whenever the mood strikes. Thank God for voice notes and emails-they take the pressure off saying everything all at once, don’t they? This is some of what we've been chatting about this month.

(For context, we’d been talking about the different shapes of families in our generation compared to our parents. And now you can put your cup against the wall and listen in to the rest)

Dom: I’m going away this weekend to Woolley Grange, have you been? It’s me plus the two kids, a lesbian couple and their daughter and a hetro couple and their kids. I didn’t think anything of it until our chat just now. I suppose this would have been unthinkable in our parents generation - but we’ve all been away together before and it really works for us - even for Sam, the only guy.

Salima: Also, do you remember that our parents’ generation seemed to spend a LOT of time going to dinner parties where everybody was coupled up, and was merrily ejected if their partner died/left/couldn’t make polite chit chat? Thank GOD this is not how I, nor my pals, hang out with one another. I actually do the vast majority of ‘friend-ing” solo, and report back to my husband when I come home who is always my favourite person with whom to dissect all our ins and outs. I have no desire to make couple friends particularly as I think the chances of everyone TRULY loving each others’ company is as likely as I am to hold a 5 course dinner party. IE NIL.

Dom: OMG I SO remember the dinner parties my parents used to have. Enormous banquets with themed food and hours of preparation (all by mum, naturally). There was something quite special about them though. All the dressing up and music and flirtation. I used to be roped in to help top up glasses whereupon I’d be questioned about my love life despite being about 12. I guess we still dress up and flirt these days, but it tends to be at a restaurant. At home, it’s more about proving how little effort you made rather than showing off your hosting skills. At least, it seems to be in the circles I move in?? It works for me as it means I can get away with ordering takeaway when I have friends over. If it was any harder, I probably wouldn’t bother.

Salima: I was a waiter too. I used to pass around chicken and mushroom vol au vents, and get terribly cross when guests questioned my MEAT IS MURDER badge. I was a pretty sanctimonious teenager perfumed by Body Shop Dewberry spray and decorated with my CND, Amnesty and pro-veggie badges pinned on my school blazer. But I used to steal cold sausages from the fridge when everyone was asleep. I thought you couldn’t change your mind. I thought you had to stick to your tribe and that was it for life. I agree about hosting these days-your point about showing up with as little effort as possible, and I love this about the friends I now have as a grown up. It was tricky being a teen wasn’t it? I thought I had to put 100 percent in to friends at all times, at the expense of myself. It has taken until my forties to be less of a social chameleon and ask myself what I actually want-and sometimes that is watching telly, eating crisps and dips with mates on the sofa, and that’s as good, if not better than a five course dinner party with tablecloths. PS I cannot STAND the term “picky bits”. Where do you stand on it?

Dom: My closest friends know I am a semi-introvert and need to recharge between socialising. One of them asked to come over to watch the England match with me last night and I just said no (yup, just NO, imagine!) because it’s my birthday this week and I need to save all my energy for drinks on Friday. I knew that she wouldn’t be offended and just knows it’s my form of self-care or whatever we’re supposed to call it. That would NEVER have happened in our twenties, maybe even thirties. Living on my own (well, aside from the kids and dog) means I do need to be careful not to retreat too much, tho.But very often a voice note exchange after I’ve put the kids to bed is enough. Then it’s my time to write - by which I mean watch TV. Picky bits? Yes, gross. It’s the new Friyay. They’ll have it on birthday cards soon. Prosecco and picky bits! Vom.

Salima: Yes, I agree that sometimes a voice memo will be sufficient charge for one’s social battery, but I definitely need my mates. I’ve really discovered that this year when I wasn’t terribly well. I love my fam, but in the steroid highs and chemo lows, great women were my bloody saviours. These pals have now seen me at my very worst, and am thankful they’ve stuck around. But I am what they call an introverted extrovert, I think. As much as I love a party, I am very happy writing all day from my bed.(er, although when I say WRITING, I mean bursts of work + Vinted + doom scrolling) I use my bed like an office. It’s the opposite of how I was brought up to behave. My mum used to hoover my bedroom at 8am on Saturday mornings as a not too subtle hint to get out of bed. She was super suspicious of any form of rest, and it’s probably why in her eighties she is still a formidable force. But I am the absolute opposite. I am a natural sloven. Where do you sit on the sliding scale of bed rotter to tech bro?

Dom: I am a TOTAl sloven. I love my bed. But because I am practically narcoleptic, I can’t work from there for more than five minutes without falling asleep. So it’s kitchen island for me, where I sit, perched over on a bar stool ensuring maximum future back damage. I like to be very close to the fridge, but when it all gets too much, and I start having to wear joggers instead of waistbands, I relocate to the co-working space at the gym, where a smoothie costs a tenner and I can’t afford to eat or drink. I work better there actually, on account of the change of scenery. It also means I occasionally do some exercise, which for a sloven is very rare. Case in point, today I was booked in for a sound bath and I cancelled at the last minute because I was too tired. That is messed up, isn’t it?

Salima: I have to kid myself that I’m not exercising. Hence, I love a long walk with headphones where I can sing along to show tunes in the woods with the only audience being an occasional rabbit or woodpecker. This is better for everyone. The only issue is everyone keeps telling me that I must strength train immediately or I might keel over prematurely. So, I have bought a weighted vest and little ankle/wrist weights that make it hard to hold my phone to my ear. I like to think they make me look like I’m an undercover SAS assassin, but my husband tells me I look like a retired circus performer training for my return. I don’t think that’s a compliment. My exercise ‘regime” is very different to the one I followed when I lived in the city. Out here, it’s possible to jog (well, walk fast) in one’s pyjamas, and to multi task with hair dye kit, and catch up calls on loudspeaker (the weights, remember) with fellow dilettantes. I refuse to measure the steps, particularly after this last year of monitoring every bodily function, but forget Lululemon and virgin mojito airup water, every keep fit nut job needs a pair of striped cotton pyjamas.

Dom: Honestly, pajama-clad or otherwise, I am impressed by the SAS fitness gear. In my defence, after cancelling the sound bath, I was knocked out by a virus that has rendered me bed bound ever since. So let’s blame it on that. You’ll know all about this (is it annoying when people now say this to you?), but being knocked out really does bring out your best people. I HATE asking for help - I am horribly hyper independent (yes I can have two kids on my own thank you very much!), but my God, when I finally have no choice but to give in and throw out an SOS, I realise how kind most people are. M&S care parcels, drug runs, school runs and friends coming over to put my kids to bed. I feel both deranged with fever and filled up with love and gratitude. I’ve watched a lot of daytime TV at this point and discovered that Dickinson’s Real Deal makes me extremely depressed. I’m now well enough to think I should be using my time more wisely. Hence my next watch will be a documentary about chess. I really want to learn how to play - can you?

Salima: I do NOT like games, I’m afraid. Even worthy ones like chess that I am sure are terribly good for your synapses. Or is it your neural pathways? I cannot muster up any enthusiasm for winning, you see. I am the last person you should ever choose to be on your tug of war team as I will pretend I am trying, but really I am waiting for it all to be over so we can sit and have a drink under a shady tree together.(yes, this happened a few days ago) I don’t get the whole do-or-die lifelong allegiance to a football team. I definitely am in ICK territory when I see grown men depressed about professional athletes losing a match. I’m more interested in the bits in between. Who’s dating who. The new haircut. Re-watching Hacks. The strawberry moon. Just don’t ask me to play Snap.

Dom: Oh but you are free of the young children era! I have to play games - at least sometimes. And chess feels less mind-numbing than Snakes and Ladders. And the mere sight of the board in my house also makes me feel very clever, despite the fact I don’t understand it at all. The other day, I was ‘playing’ it with my five year old at the kitchen table and a friend showed up out of the blue. Our blinds were wide open and so the scene she witnessed was hilariously unrealistic. I had to admit to her that she’d usually have found us all in a heap on the sofa watching CBeebies. Adult games - absolutely agree. One of my very best friends has recently started to suggest we play a game when we all meet up and he gets shot down every time. Madness, especially as we barely ever catch up. I blame it on his Ozempic dulling down his ability to recognise true pleasure.

Salima: Listen, as I appear to be the only person not on the jabs, I am getting a little bored with tiny plates of food at friends’ houses. I am a natural glutton. But I don’t currently have many pals who are up for an all-you-can-eat dim sum buffet, battered sausage, or even an ice cream sundae. Recently one of my best mates who used to inhale Marlboro lights, Pimms and late night kebabs at uni, suggested we SHARE a Pret salad. I felt hungrier after eating my allocated portion. Being a nineties kid, imbibing the Moss’s infamous quote “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”, working as an actress for years where my body was under scrutiny, mean that it’s been a bare knuckled fight to get to a place in my forties where I feel SORT OFf good about myself. It’s my birthday tomorrow and I intend to eat a large amount of guilt-free cake.

And now we must stop the chat, because there is cake to be eaten. But we’ll be back.

Now tell us-do you have conversations with your friends that unfold over days (or weeks) like this? Or is it just us?

See you next month,

Salima & Dom x