Emma, who lives in Llanwrst, AnnieRhiannon territory but I'm sure they don't know each other, makes me laugh till I cry. Nine years ago our first coversation went something like this, "Your shoes are no good for standing and walking around in", "Hello", "Hello. Change your shoes", "OK", "Good, what's your name? I'm Emma".
If I overheard other people having our conversations I'd shake my head dismissively and coolly leave the room - we spend entire evenings chatting on the phone, saying not very much about anything, but taking the Ss out of everything we ay, (Jeu Chrit upertar, The Penninular War, ing a ong of ixpence), randomly using trigger words to set off the FBI phone taps, having the ritual conversation about Simon Cowell, Simon Callow, Matthew and Harry Corbett that makes us laugh so much that we can barely breathe enough to splutter out the last line, "What's that you say, Sooty?".
We don't like the same music, TV programmes or films or books, or fancy the same people (well, Brad used to be a given before he went off with Angelina) or have the same politics or moral values or similar experiences or expectations of life, and, apart from Phoenix Nights, the same things don't make us laugh. But we can easily spend 5 hours on the phone or 3 weeks sharing a hotel room without a cross word or a moment's uncomfortable silence.
Every year or so we meet up to go on holiday together. This evening I was looking at some of the photos we've taken in various places and there seems to be a disproportionate number of pictures of private investigators' offices.
And, signs.
