Just like honey

I have two beautiful and talented blood sisters.
And Honey.
She didn't like me at first, but to be fair, I was trying to chat up her girlfriend. Since we got to know one another she's always been one of my very best buddies. An honorary sister.

We summered years ago in treehouses, full of energy and ideas, to assert our love of the Land, helping to put off the building of two roads in Weymouth and Guildford. She looked great in a harness, knew her knots and dated some strange, if charming characters, in her orange British Rail-workman's coat. I think one of them was Septic. I mean that was his name. Yes.

Back then she was 'Punk Honey'. But as time wore on we both matured a little, and although she now espouses a love for the Telegraph and Kenneth Clarke, I love her more every day. ( To be fair, she adores good food, and responds to charisma. And she just so happens to exhibit both in abundance.) We've had an uncomplicated Platonic relationship for long years, and she has grown to be one of my closest confidantes, even where 'affaires du coeur' are concerned. And I've learnt much from her timely tell. She is also the only person whose creativity I trust anywhere near my haircut!

More recently she's inspired me with the presence and tone of her writing, even to the point of making me want to write regularly for the first time- here. Her words are like birds, singing sweet, clever and strong; singing of life and all the good things of life; destined to fly to lands far and yonder. Honey always tells a ripping yarn, and her history of blarney exaggerations has mellowed, but intensified, to the point where now, they merely make her point fairly, succinctly, emphatic and poetic.

So it seemed quite in keeping with the spirit of our long sweet friendship to sit by the river's edge past south of Southeaze a couple of Saturdays past, chewing satisfyingly crispy hunks of French bread spread thick with salty, buttery Chaumes (a name to delight her if ever there was one) and sipping orange juice in the aching late summer sun.

After what seemed like years of waiting for this moment, feeling uncomfortable wearing this thing I call my head, at last she turned to me and confirmed that my hair looked awful. Relieved, I enjoined her to behave once again in the manner fitting my 'official hairdresser', and found for her a tiny pair of scissors on a new penknife. She looked at me disbelievingly.

'You want me to cut your hair with those?'
'I've been waiting for this for six months! We must seize the day!'
'It'll take all night. No way'
'Way. What if I promise to blog it?'
'Hand me the scissors.'

Just like honey.

Each tiny snip was as a bon môt; sensitive, expressive, knowing. Needless to say, the emergency scissors lasted only half an hour. We realized the sun was setting, balancing on the ridge of the glowing downs, and sending the cobwebs in the reeds into wide coronas of light. We made for home, half my poor head renewed, half awaiting attention, which Honey duly supplied in town, along with a rather excellent, leafy, sorrell, lentil and fennel salad.

I could write for weeks about all the adventures, meals, inspiring and entertaining conversations and moments of beauty we've shared, but she does it all so well I'll leave you to discover her yourself.

toastandhoney.com