In high school we’re taught Pythagoras’ theorem and how to use a Bunsen burner – but not life skills like how to end a friendship. Acquaintance Management could have been a three-day tutorial in between sex ed and P.E., including cheeky themes on mental health, self-respect and boundaries; instead it’s outsourced to the “school of hard knocks” of our twenties.

Terminating a romantic relationship is a walk in the park compared to the swimming-with-sharks nebulous of telling a comrade their services are superfluous to requirements. Maybe it was simpler in kindergarten. One minute you’re playing blocks, the next you’re on the other side of the mats sipping milk with someone new. As grown-ups we can’t possibly express ourselves so clearly; squeezing sentiment through an elaborate set of euphemisms, excuses and hoop jumping.

My friend Josh once wrote a song called ‘Friendshit.’ The theme was “if I met some of my friends from school now I’d hate them.” The irony there is Josh and I aren’t great friends at the moment. It’s because I’m holding onto stuff from high school. Hey, I’m a collector and nostalgia is in.

Some friends are complicated. Some friendships don’t stand up to forensic examination. Who are you again? Why are you still on the emotional payroll? Some are due for an audit.

I propose a conscious unmating ritual down at the pub. You enjoy a long handshake, avoid eye contact and share a memory over a brief pot of beer. You turn your backs and walk off into the night like contented cowboys. No harm, no foul.

A few years ago I ended things by email. I told my ex-friend Matt that we’d had a good run but it wasn’t working for me anymore. Perhaps we would catch up for coffee down the road. My friend (of twenty years) never responded. It was a bit of a desperate move in emotionally challenging times. I felt fatigued and threatened. There was a motivation to separate myself from complicated people.

I’m in awe of parents with their “get out of friend jail” card in having a kid who is sick. Recently I’ve witnessed the raw power of the first-time parent who is renovating. Now that’s a David Copperfield-grade ability to disappear from a social circle. I don’t think my friend Hugh is just “taking a break” either. I think this time it’s over. The invite to the pub was declined. Fitting, seeing as I started the cancelling. Four years ago I delayed a dinner plan because I really wanted to go on a date. “There’s a girl I’ve met online who I’m nuts about and she’s only free tomorrow eve.”

Hugh seemed accepting. “Don’t worry about me though, make the most of the date night I reckon.” Thumbs up emoji.

Months later, I realised he was being sarcastic. (Well, I don’t know this for certain).
Damn, I thought. You made a mistake back there. I emailed an apology, but I haven’t seen him in person since. Then COVID happened and I moved back to my home town.

No words were ever said about the status of our ten year friendship. I’m pretty sure this would be a time when someone older and wiser – maybe someone called Reg – would tell me that when someone has a child everything changes. In the Reg vacuum, I’m left with an in-house anxiety author compelled to spin elaborate narratives with me as the villain and the victim.

Friendships aren’t forever and that’s fine. They come and go like marvellous adventures. They fill our memories with gold. Give that chum a certificate of merit in your mind and move on. Leave room in your heart for a spectacular second act.

The Big Issue, 2023