The rules of palship, updated and revised

Nothing like a clear-eye upbraiding to show a fellow the error of his ways, writes Darrel Bristow-Bovey

Ireceived an e-mail yesterday from a young girl who’s a firm friend of mine. Small girls are the very best of human beings, and exceedingly good correspondents because they are lively and articulate and interested in the world around them, and their hearts are still open to its small surprises and delights. This, however, was not a happy e-mail. It was written in disapproval and did not shy away from the unpleasant but necessary task of telling me some home truths about myself.

How can I call myself a friend, was the gist of it, when for long periods of time — days on end, recently even weeks — I do not write or call or send any reassurance that we are still pals? What kind of a friend, she wanted to know, can find the time to post things on the internet for complete strangers to read, while his good buddy languishes neglected back home, bowed under the oppressive regimes of school and a loving family? Also, there was the matter of my having written mockingly in my last mail about her enthusiasm for the movie

Mama Mia 2. Had I even watched Mama

Mia 2? She did not think so, or I could never have said such foolish things, and if I could heap scorn and ridicule on something that means so much to her without so much as checking it out for myself, then honestly what kind of friend am I?

I felt very abashed. There was a spareness and restraint to the writing that made it sting all the more, and trebly so because it was all true. I wrote back immediately in gusts of apology, blaming my schedule and my work and my deeply idle nature, and also confessing that I have never been entirely sure of the rules and codes of being friends.

She was somewhat mollified. Perhaps, she replied, it would be advisable for us to draw up some mutually agreed memorandum of understanding laying out the reciprocal rights and responsibilities of friendship, so as to avoid future misunderstandings of this nature. In return, I sent her Noel Coward and Esmé Wynne’s “Rules of Palship”.

Long before Noel Coward became Noel Coward he was a precocious child actor who left school early to pursue his manifest destiny. It’s a lonely life, being the youngest in the cast, always touring, far from home, and he became best friends with another child actor, Esmé Wynne. It was a very turbulent relationship. They loved each other fiercely but were always quarreling. Finally, to preserve their friendship, on August 11 1915, aged 14, they typed up their memorandum and solemnly signed at the bottom.

Some of the contracted points are very sensible indeed:

“1) We must not tease each other, and if we begin we must stop directly we are asked.” or

“4) We must share all profits in any transaction made together, however slight the help of the other may be.” or

“6) If one hits the other in anger or fun, they must allow the other to hit back.”

We debated the provisions of the contract, and agreed that she’s already living up to most of the stipulations, and that I am the principal party in breach. Her most recent e-mail, for instance, had more than fulfilled the obligation of clause 12):

“We must tell each other what we think about the other’s appearance or behaviour.”

We agreed on most points, and added some of our own:

We’ll contact each other when we think of each other, however briefly and imperfectly, and won’t wait till we have time to do it properly.

Even when quarreling we’ll still talk to each other, even if it’s just to agree that we’re still quarreling.

We’ll invite each other to all parties and special occasions, even when we know the other person can’t possibly be there, because it’s always nice to be asked, and anyway, you never know.

We’ll never cancel a date, but if we do the other one will always totally understand and not be upset.

We’ll always split all costs, except when one person has a lot more money than the other, then they should pay.

We’ll always tell each other our good news, not just our bad news, because we know that the other person is always happy for us, even when they’re a bit jealous.

We’ll never make fun of a movie unless we’ve seen it ourselves and given it a proper chance. This clause includes but is not restricted to Mama Mia 2: Here We Go Again.

Last night, at the Cine Diana open-air cinema in Poros harbour, I paid my à4 and took my seat in the purpling dusk to watch

Mama Mia 2. The first song is pretty lame, but once it got going I laughed, I cried, I sang along. That last scene with Meryl Streep in the little church on top of the hill in Skopelos had me weeping like a small child at the tender beauty and tragedy of life. It may be the best movie in the world.