Making A Case For Female Friendship
Because the older we all get, the more we need women in our circle who know why we can never drink blue sambuca again.
Thanks to Instagram I sometimes find myself turning into the digital equivalent of a crotchety old man. There are things on that platform that are just sooooo overworked that I find myself eye-rolling and internally harrumphing when I read them. Words like shenanigans. Oooh, ‘shenanigans with the girls’. Really Sheila? You’re drinking an aperol spritz at Tashas. And tribe. ‘My tribe’. Are we in the Amazon, Sheila? But this story is not about that.
It is simply to tell you that I despise that Instagram has made Very Fun Things like shenanigans and Very Cool Things, like a tribe, so bloody annoying. Because to the untrained eye, shenanigans with my tribe is possibly exactly what I have just been up to. But, of course, it isn’t because: kill me now.
PS: it’s also possibly exactly what you’d like to be doing. And in that case, you should! I support you, your shenanigans and your tribe, Sheila.
So, what makes me an expert? Well, it’s a few things but mostly it’s because I have first-hand, real-world experience on the matter <insert eye-roll emoji> having just returned from Madrid. Back in the ‘90s in a land before time, my tribe wasn’t even called my tribe or even my BFFs. I know – LAME. If I had to call for them across the classroom it also wasn’t ‘hey bitchessss’ – ironically obvs. They were just, urgh, My Friends.
We were friends since the dawn of the 80s, tracked one another through more than a decade of school, boyfs, heartbreaks and holidays. We shared every song lyric, story, period pain, moan, groan and mega-event. We parted ways after school, long before social media and email could easily keep us in contact, and remained friends through landline calls, postcards from far-flung locations and parental check-ins. Some stayed and then left, some left and then came back. Anyway, suffice it to say that a trillion years later, we’re all still friends. One lives within walking distance of my front door. I see you! The others somewhat further afield.
Those friends know where the bodies are buried. When I say: these are the friends that know everything about you; they know everything about you. They know your parents, your family’s goings-on. They’ve spent countless hours holed up with your little brother in a fort. They’ve had midnight secrets whispered to them over so many nights, over so many years, that you couldn’t possibly count. They know why you can’t drink that sambuca. That you don’t drink tea. And they know your coffee order without ever asking. A single look from them can send you into paroxysms of laughter. Inside jokes have never been more annoying.
Aside: They even know what your absolutely hideous, will-never-see-the-light-of-day visa photograph for this exact trip looks like.
So, when you leave school, you are right to think: “these are my friends’. And then you get to varsity and think “okay, okay now those school guys + these guys = my friends.” Then you start working and you repeat the performance of “okay, now, now these are all my friends.” And that sorta drops off until you really do think you’ve pretty much got a handle of this friends biz.
Perhaps you have kids and one fine day, they come home from school to tell you about some sweet little nugget who’s just taken a toothy nosh out of their arm and it turns out, you weren’t even half done with friends. Because your kids bring their friends, which brings new friends into your orbit. Until eventually you are almost 50 and your kids are grown up and no longer going to parties, where you have to linger over Nik Naks, making small talk to other moms who turn out to be wild and funny and fabulous.
Would you believe that despite possibly trying to feed you an unwanted cup of tea, these New Friend Moms go on to become joyous late night selfie-takers - with your kids in tow - at heaving, beach-bummy jols like the dance floor at Billy’s? Until one fine day, you have a brainwave, or a menopausal lapse of reasonable thinking, and you gather a whole, ahem, tribe, together of new and old and you head far away to watch a band.
Not just any band. The band of your collective teenage dreams. In my case, this band is Depeche Mode. For you, it might be Madonna, Taylor Swift, Take That, Fleetwood Mac, Pearl Jam, Coldplay… The only proviso is that you feel very young all over again. And you know all the words. And it brings a level of nostalgia that is close to tears. Even if, to the naked and untrained eye, the band might look a leeeetle aged.
Cue Madrid. A more beautiful European city you’re unlikely to find – wide boulevards stretch on for miles with shady side streets branching off every couple of hundred metres to give pause from the sun, the crowds, the buzz. These boulevards unravel until their flow is interrupted by fountains or parks – both are plentiful in Madrid. Again, a moment for shade and pause. The wine is red, the olives are green, the ham is acorn-fed, the cheese is nutty and, as the kids would say, it’s giving.
Giving what? Don’t know. Too embarrassed to ask. But it’s giving. And it gave all the way through to Depeche Mode and beyond. Depeche Mode. They prowled onto the stage like sexy vampires – all kohl liner, black waistcoats and rock n roll. But from the first second of the opening track, they were 25 again. And us? Well, we were even younger!
It’s fitting – the new album and the tour is called Memento Mori, which sounds darker that it is. Translated from Latin, it means: remember that you will die. But as Depeche Mode’s Dave Gahan (aka my second husband) says, it simply means “the music will outlive us all,” which is just me giving you a very long-winded approach to say: fork it, do all the things!
Do all the things, but - for one singular experience - skip your family and your kids and go with your besties. They will ask nothing of you! They need zero looking after. They don’t need a Starbucks vanilla latte every three blocks. They can shop unattended. They use their own credit cards. They look out for bathrooms as often as you do. They will always share a bottle of wine. They are never bored of A) art galleries and museums, B) trying on clothes, C) snacking, D) trawling through foreign grocery store aisles or E) all of the above. They also love gardens. They swoon over flowers. And fountains. And exotic tapas. They never need to eat “something simple”. Sephora doesn’t bore them or bankrupt you. The audio guide at the museum is a must not a ‘must we?’
And as the days unfurl, you feel yourself falling back into old ways – and by old ways, I mean ways so old, they’re long forgotten. Teenage Stupid Old. Curled over with laughter. Idiotic toasts. Old memories. Badly sung lyrics. Deep sleep. Utterly useless selfie poses. Shared lip balms. Midnight crisps. Stolen olives. Until a lovely official Spanish chap in a smartly pressed uniform has to stomp up and admonish your noisiness with a “por favor.”
Which of course becomes… A future idiotic toast, inside joke and old memory-to-be. So, where to next?!
Here’s A Whirlwind Guide To Madrid…
Stay: 7 Islas Hotel was achingly cool but not achingly priced. Plus, it’s super central, situated at the pulse point of Madrid’s many restaurants and shops on a cobbled side street. And in colder months, there’s a roaring fire in the lobby lounge that makes for a perfect meeting point. @7islashotel
Eat: Don’t miss Mercado De San Miguel. Its been serving food from this location for more than a century, so not only is the edifice completely gorgeous but the food spectacular too. Spanish to its core, its 20-odd food vendors dish trad favourites like Iberian ham, cheese and bread, olives, seafood (do not miss the scampi) as well as a few contemporary iterations on old faves, local wine and beer. Grabbing a table can be a blood sport but anyone who has fought for a parking at Sandton City or the V&A on a Saturday morning should be well equipped to deal.
Eat: Street XO is Michelin-starred bad boy chef Dabiz Munoz tapas-but-not eaterie. It’s decor is edgy, its menu sublime and more affordable than Diver XO, his three-starred restaurant, also in Madrid, foodies. Plus, Street XO doesn’t take bookings, you you just need luck and the patience to queue.
Shop: Gran Via is where you’ll find all the big chains from Spanish faves like Zara to Pull & Bear, Stradivarius, Mango and Desigual. All Spanish brands. All shoppable on your ZAR. And yes, you may argue, we do have Zara locally. But Spanish Zara in its native Spain is a considerably sizier affair.
Shop: Loewe is the Spanish luxury brand to look out for - if you need help with pronunciation (its been so mispronounced over so many years, it is a meme) then watch this stylish and funny new vid from the maison posted yesterday. Yes, you really saw it here first. Loewe is Old Hollywood, royalty and stealth wealth. Its bags whisper, they don’t scream. For summer, you’ll be shopping the Loewe basket bag, for an evergreen classic, look no further than the Loewe puzzle bag. Thanks Jonathan Anderson. Its iconic.
Shop: If you have teens, take a side street down Calle de Fuencarral and head for these Tik Tok-trending faves - Brandy Melville (great for fash gifts because much of their store is one size), Subdued and Sephora. But don’t be a TikTok mom and buy your tweens retinol-laced products. Just stick to the basics! Sol de Janeiro 62 is always a winner. And it smells good on everyone.
Culture: The Prado Museum is packed with Spanish old masters, so if you want to see Velasquez and El Greco then you want to start here. Plus, the space itself is incomprehensibly gorgeous and enormous - a full city block. For more contemporary art, you’ll find the Reina Sophia Museum in the same ‘hood. This is where you’ll find Picasso, Dali, Miro, Goya. It’s most famous for Picasso’s Geurnica, arguably his most famous and powerful work.
Park Life: Go for a run, row a boat, pack a picnic, take a stroll at El Retiro, Madrid’s biggest public park, abutting the Prado Museum. Its breath-taking - packed not just with natural beauty, but history and architectural significance too. Parque de la Montana and the Temple of Debod is also not to be missed, most especially for sunset, where Madrilenos gather to watch the sun dip below the horizon while casting dying light on both the ancient temple and the ancient city walls.
Music: Of course, there’s flamenco but Madrid is also a stopping point for all the European music tours over the summer and beyond. Later this year, there’s Mad Cool, Madrid’s music festival featuring Dua Lipa, Pearl Jam, The Smashing Pumpkins, Avril Lavigne, Maneskin, The Killers. MAd Cool is a chunk of change cheaper than the British summer music festivals and the weather is, quite rightly, sensational in Spain. Festival aside, everyone from Tay Tay to Olivia Rodrigo to Metallica has a Madrid concert date booked this year.
Any plans? Tell me in the comments.
My best in this report is the bit about one single experience leaving the family behind - that list you made from A to E plus the gardens etc is just so classically true!! Lovely report Dan xx
what fun! this was a super one. So identified. Our "gals" have been meeting for 55 years. I adore them all. Sadly, some have left....oh well at 77 what can one expect? See you soon lovely daughter in law