Facebook

Facebook: It's been splendid, surreal and scary.

Splendid? Friends from yesteryear; school friends, uni friends, ex work friends, travelling friends, maternity friends, all kinds of friends. Some I was already in touch with, others I wasn't. Fantastic! I'm taking my son to see uni friend 'Skinner' in Manchester in two weeks time. We'd shared a house, got drunk, got stoned, peed our pants laughing, sat our exams and gone our separate ways. Facebook got us back together and last month she came down to London with her husband and two kids. I knew her husband back then too! Splendid indeed.

Surreal? My parents moved to the UK from Mauritius in the 1960's when the island gained independence from British rule. I first went when I was 16 and met a load of cousins. One of them invites me as a friend and well, I can't resist being a voyeur and sneaking a peek at his friends. Bikini clad bodies on beautiful beaches. Lots of surnames I'd met and also heard my parents mention. Had they stayed on the island, I would have grown up with these people. My life would be totally different. Surreal indeed.

Scary? You can run baby but you can't hide. Shit school was shit. That's why I call it Shit School. Sure there were good times. There must have been good times. I don't remember good times.
When I left that place I stayed in touch with no-one and began running. Ran into booze, drugs, countries. I ran. Run rabbit run rabbit run run run.
When Friend's Re-united got set up I posted my details on all my old schools but not that one. I did peer in though, being a curious kind of scaredy cat, to see who was there. I emailed four people. "I hope life's treating you well," I wrote to a girl and two boys in my year. "I hope you're happy now," to the boy in the year above. No questions. I wasn't looking for answers. I wasn't looking for friendship. I don't know what the fuck I was looking for.
The girl in my year didn't respond. One of the boys said he was a banker in Singapore, the other sent an email from a keyboard attached to his tv. It was tricky, he said, he'd write soon. He didn't which was fine. Which was more than find. I didn't know what beast I was unleashing when I typed my spiel and hit 'send'.
The boy in the year above discovered I lived in London and suggested we meet. We did more than meet. He's the Foca.
Oh how I've cringed over that little cliche.

Leaving that aside and going back to Facebook.... I was caught in the proverbial headlights when Adam sent me a message. I replied saying I didn't remember him. "I showed you around on your first day." I remembered. Nice guy. I took deep breaths for several days before I accepted his invite to be a friend.
When Luke, Old Shit School Acquaintance, Adam's friend, sent an invite with a message, I didn't remember him but I did remember smoking behind the chapel.
Then Adam invited me to join the Shit School Association. I panicked. That's the thing with running away from something; you don't actually go anywhere. I went half way around the world to get away. I came home by foot, by boat, by bus, by train, by strangers' cars, because I knew it would take ages to get back to England. It didn't, it took 14 months. Fourteen glorious, way too short, months.
I didn't want to get involved with the Foca, it wouldn't be the first time, but I fell for him, again. How was I supposed to know what would happen?
I ran into a girl from Shit School on Camden High Street when I was eight months pregnant. "The old girls are having a party, come!" she said.
"I'm too pregnant."
Too pregnant? As if. I worked until my due date.

I haven't 'ignored' the invite to join the Association. I haven't 'accepted' it either. How can I align myself to a school, put my name to an establishment, I wasn't happy in? It may be virtual but I don't want to go back. Why pretend that I was happy, that I'm indifferent to everything that happened there? That wide, cold corridor leading to the chapel haunts my dreams. The refectory with its high ceiling, sitting with our plastic trays on those Dickensian workhouse benches. Please Sir, get me out of here.

Going to Barcelona is what I have to do. I've been before, it's an amazing city.
Seeing Luke is something I have to do too. Facebook is just a window. It's silent. I know that Lynne only got in touch recently to find out if the gossip was true; is Foca the Father of Child? She's not been in touch since but then neither have I.
I'll talk to Luke, eat with Luke, drink with Luke, clink glasses with Luke, dance with Luke. That is real.
I could have said no, I could have kept on running, I'm good at that. I find it fitting however that I flee from the ache of missing my son right into horror memories that Luke had no part in. It will give me the courage to go back to that place in person one day and accept what happened.

Facebook scary? There comes a moment in every girl's life when she has to face the demon, whatever manifestation it takes, and just let it go.
My time has come, at long fucking last.
He's picking me up from the airport.
Who knows, I might remember something good. No problem if I don't, we've got 20 years to catch up on and a Burlesque party the night before I leave.
Wee heeeeeeeeeeeeeee!