There’s something strange and beautiful about reconnecting with old friends—especially the ones who never really went away, even if years and time zones tried to pull you apart.
Andy is one of those friends.
We met a very long time ago—back when we were young, clever, and deeply convinced we were destined to win every debate, solve the world’s problems, and possibly co-author a book about it all. University days. The Debate Society. That weird bubble of ideas, late-night chats, and budget wine where everything felt important and dramatic and hilarious.
Since then, life has done what life does. It got busy. We both moved countries at different points. I had kids. He had kids. He got married to Mary, who is—thankfully—as lovely as he always said she was. And yet, through it all, Andy and I kept in touch in the way that actually matters: intermittently, imperfectly, but consistently enough that the thread never snapped.
So when I finally made it back to the UK after seven years away (thank you COVID, thank you IVF, thank you general chaos), it was a given that we’d meet up.
We decided on Greenwich. A good middle ground, and also a beautiful spot to spend an afternoon. The weather was being unusually kind for a British summer—blue sky with just enough breeze to keep it interesting. Andy arrived with Mary and their two kids. I showed up with my two small people, slightly frazzled but still upright. And then Owen appeared—the third musketeer in our little trio from those uni days. Seeing all of us in the same space, with our kids now running circles around us, was surreal in the best possible way.
We started at the park, because that’s what you do when you’re parents: you plan all your social engagements around whether the kids can run around and burn off energy without endangering themselves or others. The kids hit it off surprisingly well. There was stick sword fighting, leaf collecting, and a half-serious discussion about whether pigeons can be tamed (they cannot). Meanwhile, the adults did the grown-up version of the same thing—laughing, catching up, and vaguely trying to keep one eye on our respective offspring.
There’s something comforting about being with people who’ve known you for so long. We didn’t have to explain anything. Not the grey hairs, not the exhaustion, not the weird jobs or chaotic life detours. They already knew who we were, and who we’d been. It was like slipping into an old jumper—faded, soft, and just the right shape.
Eventually, we migrated to a nearby pub—because there are only so many slides and swings a grown adult can handle without a pint. We found a table outside, ordered food (chips all round, obviously), and settled in for a proper catch-up.
The conversation bounced from old memories to new worries, from books and kids to how fast time is moving these days. It was joyful and slightly chaotic—someone was always off to rescue a child from a minor disaster or fishing a toy out from under a table—but we were all there. Really there.
At some point between the chips and the apple juice spills, I pulled two poetry books out of my bag—Andy’s books. The ones he wrote. The ones I’d finally remembered to buy, only seven years late. I handed them over with the sort of sheepish pride only a slightly disorganised friend can feel.
He looked genuinely touched. “You actually bought them?”
“Yes,” I said. “A friend supports their friend’s creative endeavours. Even if it takes them a literal decade.”
He opened one, flipped to the inside cover, and started writing. I expected something sweet or witty, maybe a shared memory or a joke about our uni days. But what he wrote was:
If you read this seventeen times, I will come to New Zealand.
I laughed. “Seventeen?”
He shrugged. “It felt right. Not too easy. Not impossible.”
We joked about how I’d have to keep a tally. That I’d need to sit down in a dark room with a cup of tea and a pencil, marking off each reading like some kind of poetic pilgrimage. But even as we joked, something in me sparked. It was a throwaway comment. A bit of fun. But it landed somewhere deeper than expected.
Because the truth is, being home made me realise how much I missed these people. The ones who remember who you were before you became a full-time snack dispenser and life admin manager. And it made me realise how far away I live now. How many people I want my kids to know. And how hard it is to make that happen across hemispheres.
So the idea—that tiny little seed of a sentence in the front of a poetry book—stuck.
What if he did come to New Zealand?
What if we could bring pieces of “home” across the world, instead of waiting seven years to go back to them?
I didn’t say any of that aloud, of course. At the time, it was just a funny inscription, a lovely afternoon, and a signed copy of a friend’s work tucked into my bag.
But as we parted ways—kids tired and sticky, adults smiling and a little sunburnt—I felt something shift. A small but powerful “what if” taking shape.
And when I got back home that night, after the chaos of bedtime and the ritual unpacking of bags filled with crumpled receipts and leftover crisps, I took out the book.
And I started reading.
One down. Sixteen to go.