"I thought they were a 1904 color," S explained of the lovely bouquet of roses she'd brought, "but now I see they match Rex Whistler."

I replied with not inconsiderable delight that it seemed to me to be quite the same thing, as I am sure you can agree.

"Standard and Poors have downgraded England," S. announced.

"Can they do that to a country?" I asked.  Apparently they can. 

"I met Lord ________," she said, referring to a nobleman whose surname is also a luxury brand.

"How's business?" I asked.

"I wondered  the same thing," S. admitted, "and so I said, 'Lord ________, who owns you now?' And at that he grimaced, and so then I asked, 'Americans?' somewhat rhetorically, but I could see he didn't care to pursue the subject.  He was very sweet, however, and I found myself admitting that I had never owned any _________ but that having now met him I would go and buy some. 'Oh,' he said very thoughtfully, 'that would help.' And he asked me to tea."

Then it was my turn to tell all the news which as you can imagine involved what in any other circumstance might be regarded as gossip, but that in the company of a dear friend can be more fully understood as involving a process of unburdening, wherein the friend helps one come to terms with the pain of knowing things one can not in good conscience breathe a word of to any other living being.  Therapeutic, in other words, possibly in a similar manner to the way confession is, minus the danger of being pressured for sexual favors or some sort of pennance.  Then quite naturally the conversation turned  to the string of losses we have suffered here of late.  And of course what we'd been reading.  Speaking of the new book by Geoff Dyer, about a man who dyes his hair and goes to Venice (dye/die/Dyer/Death in Venice) led inevitably to the subject of a rhyming Cockney expression which I had recently learned and was understandably eager to try out.

"Mutton," I said and waited for a response.  "As in, 'Mutt 'n' Jeff'' - deaf."  I was referring to someone known to both us for being profoundly hearing impaired.

"Bristols," S. countered.  "As in Bristol City's football team." She waved decorously at the air before her, as though delicately brushing invisible crumbs off her blouse.  When I responded rather blankly she elaborated.  "As in, an attractive woman walks by men of a certain brutish and common nature who will observe her passing and say to one another, 'hey mate, look at those Bristols..." 

It took a while but eventually, of course, I was able to think of a word that rhymes with cities and I must say Cockney slang is surely of only limited appeal since it requires so much research, although my efforts paid off for I can now report that Ashton Gate Stadium became Bristol City's permanent home in 1904.

But this is what friends are for, of course.  To help us learn things while at the same time allowing us to be ourselves, with our quirks and limitations.  Being comfortable, that is, with each other, being just the way we are.  Just being.  Lovely.