When I was a local newspaper reporter one of our bread and butter stories involved write ups about couples celebrating their diamond wedding anniversary. There was a running joke that we always asked what the secret to a long marriage was and they always, without fail, said ‘give and take’. Then we’d run a photo of them holding hands, looking old and happy and justifiably pleased with themselves.
Now, Andy and I may have only been married for eight years but I do think we can claim to have fast-tracked through a decade or so through lockdown. After 78 days straight living side by side, without so much as an afternoon apart, you realise there really is nowhere to hide.
I don’t know what the secret to 60 years of marriage is - ask me when I’m 89 - but I do know what has helped till now, and that’s The Other Women.
And on Friday, after three months apart, I was reunited with the leader of The Other Women. And it was amazing.
This is Clare. My other other half. My maid of honour. Godmother to my first born. Keeper of my secrets and owner of all the blackmail fodder. The only person who knows me as well as my husband does.
Through poor planning Clare and I ended up living 40 miles apart. We also managed to have five babies in seven years and somehow not overlap on one single day of maternity leave.
But we will always have Staines. Sorry, Windsor.
A couple of years ago we discovered a reasonable gastro pub situated exactly 32 minutes drive from both our homes, which is where we conduct the Staines Supper Club on Wednesdays at 7.30pm as regularly as we can organise. Which, shamefully, is about once every third month.
It is at these sessions that we reset everything. We systematically cover every important topic - husbands, kids, careers, finances, holidays, parents & siblings, in-laws, friends and then AOB, which generally involves salacious gossip and guilty secrets (that sounds more exciting than it is but it usually involves admitting to some middle-aged pastime such as enjoying high-waisted jeans).
We even have an ongoing WhatsApp group called ‘Agenda’, lest we part ways not having covered some terribly pressing issue. And we always head home completely cleansed and at peace with the world once again. More or less.
(We do occasionally and optimistically meet up somewhere on a weekday with at least one child each in tow, but that inevitably means we never conclude a single sentence and spend the rest of the evening texting ‘I forgot to tell you…’ type messages.)
Through lockdown we’ve kept each other going with messages of moral support and a few long phone calls - one which she conducted sitting outside her house in the car, with a G&T, just for the peace and quiet.
But on Friday she and I - and all five of our children - heading towards Staines once again, meeting up in one of the many branches of Windsor Great Park for what Bella announced afterwards was ‘the best day ever’.
It was pretty great, but I think Bella was less enthused about the company and more about the makeshift swing they found hidden in some shrubbery while the rest of the play equipment was meanly roped off.
We’d agreed 1) the lack of public toilets and 2) extortionate car parking fees meant we could only meet for a few hours. But, not having been there before, we hadn’t accounted for 1) the dense rhododendron bushes that line a huge number of the extensive paths, nor 2) our track record of cajoling each other into spending money. Where once it might have been on clothes we didn’t need or champagne over prosecco, this time it was £10 spunked on five hours in a car park. Rock and roll.
And man it was gooooood. The children amused each other which meant we sometimes got a full five minutes without interruption. We had a (weirdly early) picnic lunch in glorious sunshine. We found an ice cream and coffee stand in operation. We resisted physical contact and we only got rained on a little bit twice.
And because Clare is a far better person than I am she not only came bearing gifts for us all but as we settled into our 11.30 picnic lunch she produced two beers nestled happily round an ice block. That right there people. That. Right. There.
And, as ever, I drove out of that car park £10 and 78 days of stress lighter.
Men will never understand the relationship between women and their girlfriends. They tease us for our endless chat, our oversharing, how we know what each other is thinking far better than they could ever hope to. But in truth it is my girlfriends that are my secret weapon in life.
I feel endlessly sad for men that they don't generally enter into these deep, personal friendships. Were it not for my girlfriends I would burn up, or burn out. They are my sounding boards and cheerleaders, my therapists and confidants. It's like having multiple husbands but without, you know, all the annoying husbandy bits.
And it’s not just Clare. It’s Nat and Lou, Charly and Vix, Nic, Nicky, my sisters and my NCT crew. And several others I have shamefully not mentioned.
They have kept me sane for far longer than this lockdown. They have been with me through all the ups and downs of the past (in one case) 30 years. I could no more parent without them than without Andy. They bring out the best in me and call out the worst in me. They are the spare mums: they love my kids and my kids love them.
They are The Other Women. And this post is for all of them.
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