Love Lessons & Love is Blue, Diaries of the War Years [London: Mandarin Paperbacks, 1995] and The Guardian, Joan Wyndham Obituary, April 16, 2007, photograph of Wyndham with daughter Camilla by Lewis Morley.

Joan Wyndham (1921-2007) was born at Clouds, the Wiltshire family home where the famous Sargent portrait of her great aunts hung until being sold by her father, Richard "Dirty Dick" Wyndham in 1927.  Her diaries of life as a young upper class girl during wartime make for sensational reading -- "exhilarating and irresistibly funny" as Molly Keane describes them on the front cover of the '95 Mandarin edition.

Surviving difficult times depends so much on one's attitude, as I'm sure you'll agree.  War, impending nuclear holocaust, economic disaster and the collapse of financial markets can be exhausting; throw in a difficult co-worker or a stormy romance, and it's a wonder any of us manage to get out of bed in the morning.  

As you know, tragedy can strike without warning.  That last straw is at this very moment blowing in the wind, about to descend on the proverbial camel's back.  You are coming home from your latest errand of mercy, your only thought being the proper execution of the next right thing, the next act of kindness demanded of you by a Universe that, admittedly, does seem to place higher demands on you than on your fellow man, but you shrug off this inequity as simply another test of your ability to cope with the abundant share of heartaches and sorrows Life unrelentingly sends your way, when, as you approach an utterly deserted intersection, in that empty desolate darkness of the lonely night, you are suddenly blinded by a flash of white light.  Is this it?  Is this the end? you ask, surprise mixed with a fleeting sensation of relief.

But it is not the end, or not quite, as you realize a couple weeks later when the ticket comes in the mail.  You drove through a camera-monitored intersection.  Or actually you turned right on what might, in a court of law, be deemed a red light, except that you only did execute your turn after having fully established, as can be clearly seen from the photographic evidence, that there was absolutely no on-coming traffic, no sign of human life in fact, much less any trace as far as the eye could see of other traffic, but nevermind.  This is a quibble.  That is your vehicle creeping round the corner, on your way to do good.  That is clearly you, hunched over the wheel.  You can even tell from the photograph what you are saying.  Something that begins with an "F." 

My friend Dave is only mildly sympathetic.  "Take it as a compliment," he advises. 

"How?"  I ask, attempting to control the rising tone of hysteria in my voice.  "I am not a reckless driver."

"Dude, you should be flattered anyone thinks you're reckless.  You drive like a little old lady."

"I can't afford this," I lament, refusing to discuss my driving skills and taking another tack.  "I've been so good, I've been trying so hard in these difficult times of ecomomic insecurity -- why me?" I wail.  "Why now?"

"It was your turn," Dave says drily.

"It's not fair," I counter. 

He asks me how much a photo-light ticket is these days.  I tell him.  I also mention in passing that the amount is equivalent to many people's mortgage payment, if not my own, and so possibly a contributing factor to the rise in foreclosures, but my friend cuts me off.  "Conjecture, your honor,"  he replies.

Or the cost of an evening with a very talented actor in the adult film industry, I point out, using another measure of value.  He reconsiders.

"Fight it," he advises.  "Tell them how old you are and you were rushing home because you suffer from irritable bowel syndrome --"

"You are so mean to me," I observe.

"What are friends for?" he asks, as if the question is rhetorical.  But of course he is right.  A friend knows how to put your struggles in perspective.

A friend knows what you're going through, and when the attitude you're using for a certain situation isn't working, a friend will loan you theirs.  And when you forget that everyone you meet is fighting their own kind of battles, that it isn't all about you, a real friend will remind you.  

And you will survive.  Just fine. 

As your friend, I am absolutely sure of it.