The importance of Friends (not the sitcom)

Brown. It’s the colour of the 1970s.

This is my family, all dressed up in 1974. My father an embodiment of brown, from his beard to his suit, and the rest of us with our hair, the shoes, the cushion. Even the dog is on trend. Brown is definitely à la mode.

My mother and younger sister hedge their bets in beige. My older sister (always ploughing her own furrow) stands out in red. I am the cheery one on the right, unimpressed with the plethora of brown. What I don’t know is that years later a kaleidoscope of colour will be unleashed. A world of shoulder pads on steroids and explosions of permed hair. Bring on the 1980s.

We can’t decide the decade of our birth — it’s written in the stars, or the twinkle of our parents’ eyes. We don’t choose the year or the place, but we do get to choose our friends. Below is Frances — the friend I’ve known the longest. She the one making the face on the left. I am the perplexed one on the right. Poor Alison bravely wedged between us both. If you’re out there Alison, hello and just to let you know we’ve matured a little, although I’m just as bemused by life.

Frances is all grown up below. She has an army of children and a serious job, so this is what happens…