CREDOS: Peas in a pod — II

Pam and I were both good students, shy with boys, shared old fashioned virtues and had no idea what we wanted to do with our lives when we grew up. Friends have married, procreated, reprioritised or relocated. Pam, however, has been the one constant in my life.

In our 20s we shared a beachfront apartment. It was during this angst-ridden period in our lives that we often provided a ready shoulder for the other to sob on. Countless nights found us wailing about our latest failed diet, boyfriend, aspiration or dream. When Pam decided to do something “different” with her hair one Saturday and came home with a purple mullet and a face full of tears, I was there to tell her it wasn’t so bad, even though we both knew it was horrific. Just as horrific as the time she rushed through the front door, shrieking to call 911 because she’d found body organs scattered on the beach. I still snicker when I recall the subsequent look on the faces of the police as they patiently explained, in voices usually reserved for children, that the “body organs” Pam had found were, in fact, jelly fish.

Often our phone would ring and she’d enjoy a friendly half hour chat before turning to hand me the phone: “It’s your dad,” she would say. My dad! How the heck could she talk to him for that long? He and I couldn’t manage ten minutes before fighting over something insignificant, like whether women should be allowed to deliver mail because, he’d insist, the job is called mailman. —