I’m quite averse to the word “soulmate” when it comes to romantic relationships in light of myself. There are always going to be clashes and disagreements and that sort of lark, and “soulmate” is a term that I’m just not on point with using in regards to a significant other.
But in esteem of one certain human, it sums up exactly how I feel about her (in a purely platonic way, let’s get that clear from the get-go).
I know I have quite the surplus of “best friends”. And that having such a surfeit of whom I deem in that category completely goes against the whole idea of a “best” friend. (It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t though, would it?). But there is one fab female that I can honestly say is the one person I believe to be my match made in heaven.
Christina and I met at Baradene back in year seven, though I don’t recall our first cross of paths. In different homerooms and classes for the first almost four years of intermediate and college schooling, our friendship groups were in different circles and such so that we never really knew each other too well, bar a jolly chuckle here and there. Fourth form saw us in the same drama class where the group acting activities has us mischievously misbehaving almost every period together but Christina was struck down with glandular fever and was often off school, meaning bonds took seed but were unable to be deep rooted.
Then 2007 homeroom lists were called at the beginning of the year, with Nielsen and Wortman both under the one and only Mr Fen. And from day one, no one had a chance to penetrate the union of Sione and Fulu (we had a bout of obsession with pretending to be Samoan, all right?).
Upon pondering what to include in this post I sifted through the series of trickeries, tomfooleries and monkeyshines that we have been through as a pair and I instantaneously came to the whole hearted conclusion that I shall not include the vast preponderance. (The large cat’s – I.e., “lion’s” – share is a tad too ruckersome to be shared). It is fair (well, actually “accurate” may be a better fitting term) to say that we often got ourselves into situations and such that render us being alive today nothing short of a miracle; we liked our partying, it must be said, as well as our tendency for the sometimes downright dangerous. And a laugh. Anything for a laugh. (Appropriated-mattress-in-a-park-for-the-night-after-Mobil-chicken-carcass-and-Cadbury-Dream-egg-at-Kingsland-station-after-throwing-sly-party-at-a-pal’s; having-to-go-to-the-Tauranga-hospital-for-fear-of-her-breaking-her-ankle-and-I-having-pink-eye-then-getting-into-a-traffic-altercation-on-the-way-home; singing-a-girl’s-ponytail-alight-because-she-said-some-nasty-things-about-us; it’s all just the teeny tip of the hunk of freeze – I.e., “iceberg).
We always seemed to get ourselves into the most rascally, roguish roundabouts but somehow manage to magic our way through. Wagging was a daily do, but we never ever got reprimanded for it – upon a women coming across us down at the park eating Buffalo-Bills, we launched into a play-be with Christina suffering from terrible cramping and I nursing her while we waited for “the blessed matron” (that Catholic schooling link came into great tool use on occasion). We used to go to the school counsellor, Mrs Pinto, and tell her of our woes to shoo in a free period (one time in which a lone roaming nun invited us up into the – strictly out of bounds – nunnery for tea and biscuits. Literally where no girl had gone before – without teacher planning and permission anyway). And in maths at least three times a week I would go to her class and tell the teacher Christina had been summoned to the dean, whereupon we would hang out in the hallway and crump for a little while.
When I moved to Cambridge Christina and I were devastated, distraught and distressed. Our lunchtimes of throwing pot plants around when we were annoyed at the school (Mr Fen should have stayed), nervously tittering at the actions of my spiral headed stalker (C.R.B.D, anyone?) and dancing up on Mr Rosie every homeroom morning were at the end of the era. After a flirtation with the idea of asking our parentals if I could go and live at her Maraetai home (“We could catch the ferry to school together in the mornings! What fun!”), the day came when I relocated to Waikatoland and she started 2008 without me.
But rather than our friendship fade, it flourished. Frequent Facetimes and constant chatting were the go, and when I came into the ownership of Ruby (my infamous red Beemer that still brings a pang to my aorta when I think of her) I went up almost every set of holidays and most weekends to let loose. The larks and antics continued to transpire, and sensational stories continued to be added to our topmost mate memorybank.
We were so excited for me to move back up in 2010 for my first year at Uni. Grand plans were made for pretty much constant sleepovers in my Symonds Street apartment, with going-outs the go. I was fizzing like a human Berocca when it finally happened, so pumped to be back and right there rather than an hour-and-a-half away.
But suddenly things changed. Old Ed took far greater control of me once out of the family abode and I started to recluse myself as time went by. Although Christina and I still hung out now and then and had our fair share of fun, I turned inwards so much so that the friendship that was so deep-seated in the ground was slightly deracinated, losing a little embedding.
I neglected Christina and that whole group of friends for a little while there, and the thought makes me so sad. It was the time I started to become so entrenched by internal fracas and fray, and in the melee I sent some relationships into near decrepitude.
That’s not to say we were no longer the paramount of pals – oh no, not at all. Whenever the going got tough or something significant ensued, we were often each other’s first port of call. It didn’t matter if I hadn’t seen Christina in six months or even a year – if we Skyped, had a convo or were on the phone we were back to those giggling girls wearing t-shirts covered in tagging and being ratbags around the Remuera region.
Through all of it I have always regarded Christina as one of my tip top best friends. Out of anyone I know, we have the most fun when we’re together and she can make me laugh with every ounce of my being, so much so that my abdominals actually ache. When we get together everyone else sort of goes into disregard; her goodbye dinner before she moved to London, for e.g.: as her and I got more and more wines deep we thought it was a fabulous notion to bobby pin our hair to each other’s so we couldn’t be split up – we spent a fair while getting it adequately locked in that we pretty much ignored everyone else. It’s like when I’m with her we form this magic little bubble that just cannot burst.
There’s so much more I could say. So many more facetious fables and asinine sagas I could share. (Such as our only three fights of all time; one over Will Ferrell (she is an utmost aficionado, while I was always not so partial – opinion since swayed to be a steadfast supporter), the second over whether she has a paddock at her family pad (she is adamant she does, while I always firmly voted no – even though nowadays I concede I could possibly be in the wrong, I keep it going in her presence as I love how incensed she gets when I assert it is simply a little lawn) and the final being over one H.N (we ain’t going into that once. Let’s just say it was just as ridiculous a friction focus)). But what comes out of all of it is that I love Christina beyond what words could ever put across and I am genuinely so bloody blessed to count her among my closest.
One of our main adhering ardours is the one and only HP (for her 17th birthday Christina even had a Harry Potter party. And yes, this was the one where everyone else turned up as slutty witches and I was Draco Malfoy, in Henio’s dressing gown, my school shoes and my peroxide hair slicked back). As teenagers our lifelong ambition was to one day go together to Harry Potter World in London to circulate the sets ourselves.
So upon me coming to Europe and going to dwell at her domicile, it went without saying (though we said it lots and lots) that we would be taking a tour of the place of our juvenile dreamings. A date was decided, the charges were racked up on the old CC and the keen countdown was on.
I flew back from Milan and we went to sleep on the Sunday carbonating with zeal. We awoke on May 2 fizzling with thrill. The day was upon us! The one we had been talking off for a good decade! Although we weren’t allowed entry until out 5pm booked tour, the anticipation abounded and as we went on the underground, the overground and then the HP bus, we were in a tizzy trance.
And upon entering the Warner Bro’s studio setting? The one where the full on fantastic films were, well, filmed?
We were those outlandish, over-excited 15-year-old reprobates all over again (let’s be honest; we never really did stop being them). Arms around each other, we strode in.
Christina will always be the nought to my cross. The Ash to my Catch-em. The Saul to my Dale (Pineapple Express to all you unlinking ones). The Van to my Munter.
And perhaps most fittingly in this instance…
The Harry to my Ron.
HP? Let’s get Spellbound.