So my mum calls me from Marbella or somewhere, loud stage whisper: "Can you hear me? I'm by the pool. I've met someone who knows you." Turns out that when my mum and dad introduced themselves to a young couple by the pool, in answer to a query about local restaurants, because they have unusual names, this bloke, S, immediately recognised them. "You're Sasha's parents! I used to go out with her."
Which was news - apparently - both to his now wife - when my mum called me they were allegedly having a row because she'd never heard of me - and to me. When we used to hang out, nearly ten years ago, we were good friends, but never got together. Had a relationship. Whatever the appropriate language is. I'm sure I'd know. My mum was trying to remember why we "broke up" - was it because he didn't keep kosher? I eventually remember why our friendship faded: in an apparent bid to curry favour with someone senior in his chambers, he told an old friend of my parents that he was going out with me. Which was news to me then, too, and I think I must have decided I was sick of being taken advantage of.
It's a very, very strange world. My mum has lent him a book. They are new best friends. I imagine that eventually all the people I've ever met in the world will become a smaller and smaller circle of loose acquaintances sipping cocktails on some far-flung beach, comparing notes. Shame about my multiple personality disorder.
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