‘I wouldn’t hire two friends,’ Hot Danish said in response to the news that my friend was moving over to become my work colleague. ‘You could get up to all sorts of mischief and cover it up for each other.’ Before her move, Natasha wanted to know what the dating scene was like in Amsterdam. ‘She can go to bars to meet potential dates,’ HD suggested. ‘But you’re not joining her,’ he added.

Within a few hours of her arrival, I met Natasha and another friend, Rachel, for dinner in the Jordaan area. ‘What did you talk about?’ HD wanted to know when I returned, tipsy. ‘The fact that you packed two pairs of shorts – one of which you couldn’t wear because they were so out of fashion – for a three-week holiday and then lost your temper when your washing went missing,’ I giggled.
‘Anything else you told them?’
‘Rachel said that the infinity-edge pool at Six Senses must have looked gorgeous with your swim shorts drying over the edge so I had to let her know that you thought the sea provided a good enough detergent for them and you then left them on the bathroom floor and wondered why they didn’t dry out.’ HD wasn’t impressed but I continued, ‘And you ran out of boxer shorts, too, and ended up wearing them inside out to get an extra day out of them in 40 degrees heat.’ HD had also admitted to looking forward to returning to freshly laundered clothes and home cooking towards the end of the holiday but it probably wasn’t something I should have shared with my friends (or in this blog).

Why do our closest friends bring out the worst in us? Kate, one of my oldest friends, and I were once having lunch with my family when my mum’s then boyfriend told us that his house had been broken into but nothing was stolen. We laughed so much, picturing the burglar’s disappointment when he found nothing of value, that we had to escape to the bathroom. When we eventually emerged, we saw the then boyfriend standing outside the bathroom door – he’d heard every mocking word we’d said.