Friends

The term ‘friend’ does a lot of heavy lifting. English vocabulary is deficient in recognising the wide range of human interactions, generally requiring us to make do with ‘friend’ irrespective of the subtleties of the relationship. 

Imagine a spectrum ranging from ‘stranger’ at the left to ‘spouse’ at the right with ‘friend’ in the centre. Between ‘friend’ and ‘spouse’ there are many waypoints. ‘Best friend’, ‘oldest friend’, ‘girlfriend/boyfriend’, ‘lover’, ‘partner’. But to the left of ‘friend’ there is a yawning gap to ‘acquaintance’ even though for most people this region is where the majority of their associations lie.

I have acquaintances: usually they are friends of friends who I nod to in the street if I’m sufficiently alert to recognise them. I have friends: people with whom I share interests and choose to spend time and who I would otherwise miss.

But there are situations where neither ‘acquaintance’ nor ‘friend’ is apt so that it is impossible to succinctly communicate precise nuances of relationships. 

I get along well with my neighbours. We exchange pleasantries about the weather, accept parcel deliveries when requested and exhibit the appropriate degree of interest in and concern for one another’s health and well-being. I see them frequently and am aware of certain trivial details of their lives, so they rank as more than acquaintances - yet were I to move away I doubt I would maintain contact, so they cannot count as friends. Of course, the word ‘neighbour’ itself characterises much of this relationship, but it does not distinguish between the person next door with whom you have had a decade-long boundary dispute and the kind of cordial local interactions I am lucky enough to enjoy. 

Consider members of my book group and cycle club. Unlike my neighbours, these are people with whom I choose to spend time because of a shared interest. They are more than acquaintances yet, except for a few, I never encounter them outside the context of the activity so they cannot rank as friends. If I decided to leave the book group or to cycle solo, I would be unlikely to keep in touch with them and contact would wither through neglect. 

Vocabulary is also at a loss to refer to describe the status of failed friendships. ‘Friend’ is no longer applicable and ‘ex-friend’ feels clumsy, while ‘someone I once knew’ sounds coy. 

Unlike romantic relationships, whose endings leave bruises which eventually fade, broken friendships can lack closure so that the loss seethes under the surface. For years, I had distressing dreams in which I was pointedly ignored by a close schoolfriend with whom I had lost touch following a disagreement. The unresolved trauma was eventually laid to rest when I managed to locate him and he confirmed the matter had been forgiven. Years later another friend who had an affair with my wife refused to have anything to do with me after their relationship ended, even though I bore no grudge and was in any case by then divorcing her. That still rankles.

The deepest friendships are forged through ongoing contact arising in a range of circumstances. Common employment, joint holidays, and parallel challenges to which the balm of empathy can be applied. Yet even friendships with such multiple anchor points can be severed. A four-decade long friendship, buttressed by a multitude of shared experiences, similar values and mutual support through life’s vicissitudes was terminated abruptly. The lack of a word to characterise the changed status of that person has been one of the obstacles to effective grieving.