It’s a strange thing to find yourself lonely in mid-life. It creeps up slowly as the kids leave home, or friends move away. Lives that were once thronged with people, bursting with activities, days that felt like an endless to-do list that never got completed, give way to a phone that doesn’t ring or ping. In place of the busy-ness come echoing evenings, endless weekends.
A friend who lives on her own and whose children are at university came to visit the other day. With a rather sad laugh, she told me she’d become “the woman who is a bit too keen to chat in the post office”.
I gave her a hug. I realised that because she has moved out of London a few years ago, although we chat on the phone and exchange texts, we hadn’t actually seen each other face to face since before the pandemic. And she’s someone I consider a good friend.
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