Friends Un-united By Blog Intrusion

I was reading somewhere over the weekend that the average Briton spends 39 hours of their life lost. Thirty nine years more like. I have spent 39 hours lost in a week. I have a terrible sense of direction. Before I met mrs hhn (who is a nice Northern lass), I had no idea where Birmingham or Liverpool or Cheshire were. And this is not just a North Of Watford from southern ponce thing. I didn't really know where Portugal was until I went there a few years ago. Stuck in Siberia, I was shocked to realise how close I was to Japan. I am still never really sure which is the East and which is the West coast of the USA. And I have a real block about Beijing and Bangkok.

Speaking of being lost or losing things, I am worried about losing touch with one of my best friends. We used to talk at least a couple of times a week, and meet up maybe once every two weeks. But, having not spoken since before Xmas, I called him last night and he confessed that he sees no real need to give me a call anymore. He just reads hhn every day to see how I am doing. I am actually seeing this friend of mine this Saturday, and he is going away to Ireland - that's not far from Kilmarnock, right? - for a wedding today for a few days. So he won't be able to check hhn before we meet. So here's to us having something to talk about on Saturday.

The list about hours spent being lost also included the average Briton spending: 45 hours a year on hold on the phone; being kept awake for 51 minutes a night by your partner's annoying behaviour (it did not specify if this included having sex when you don't want it); eating 35,000 biscuits in your lifetime; and having 14 close friends.

Friendship being on my mind as a result of my lack of contact with my hhn-reading friend above, I thought 14 was a bit small. And a bit sad. Not even really enough to rally a football or cricket team should there ever be that demand. Not enough even to have a decent sized birthday party. (Four wouldn't be able to make it. One would forget. Two would arrive early and leave early. Two would be drunk by the time they got there. One would have the flu. Another a better invitation. Which leaves just billy no mates and only three decent birthday guests.)

(And what is a close friend anyway? Someone you can borrow money from, or go on holiday with, or turn up at their house drunk, or sober? My father had a theory that you could judge a friendship by whether or not they would let you hide at their house if you were a spy whose cover had been blown. See yesterday's post for more on my dad's vague grip on reality.)

Anyway, here's to my mate Jim having a good hhn-free time in Ireland, so we can have a decent natter on Saturday.