If I haven't talked to you in a while, this could be why.

It's not you, it's me.

The people this blog post applies to unfortunately probably won't ever read it, because they have no idea that I occasionally write a blog. But before trying to mend or build bridges, I need to examine the underlying broken structure, and writing seems to give me the opportunity to do this. What a wonderful thing the written word is.

The thing is, it is so much easier to write about things than to talk about them. When you write, you are in control. You can make light of the sad and fun of the ridiculous. You don't have to answer questions, you don't have to respond to anyone, and you don't have to lie. I suck at lying. I can’t even get lies past my lips - not without a great deal of practise, anyway.

Social intercourse is peppered with white lies (and black lies and red lies and pink lies, too). How are you? Fine. How've you been? Great. What have you been doing? Lots. How's the family? Just wonderful. See where I'm going with this? I can't answer any of these questions without pain. Or lying - and I can’t in all conscience spend the time before I speak to you practising lying. What kind of small, furry rodent would that make me?

So, we have a stalemate, missing friends. I can't bring myself to call you, because I can't bring myself to lie when I answer your questions, and although it seems overly dramatic to admit to this, I can't speak the truth without feeling the pain of it. I don't really want to experience any more pain right now, so I won't call you. I’m sorry.

Remember me as the rabbit in the headlights with the bazooka? When I think of calling you, I just can't find that damned bazooka.

Let's say I take my courage in my hands, and I call you. We navigate the minefield of truth on my part, and we begin to explore yours. Actually, we will do this very quickly, because although I am not at all skilled at lying, I am a master of deflection. I will swat at the conversation ball with my silvery verbal squash racquet, and we will very quickly enter the territory of what's been going on in your life.

Either, the stretch of time since we spoke last will have been filled with predominantly happy things, or your life will have brought you more darkness than light. Either one will provoke guilt. If you have been having a really tough time, I will feel the guilt. I will listen to your suffering, and wonder how I could have been so selfishly wrapped up in my own petty tragedies. On the other hand, if you have been having the normal share of moderate weather, with more sunshine than storms, we will both feel the guilt. You will feel guilty for having the pleasant existence you more than deserve; and I will feel guilty for making you contrast your petty tragedies with mine. You will do that, compare them, because you must be a self-aware, thoughtful and moral person, or you wouldn't be categorised in my head as Friend. Feeling guilty is painful, and I don't really want to experience any more pain right now, so I won't call you. The bazooka must be well-hidden down the rabbit hole, and I’m not looking for it right now.

Next, we come to the issue of our past. We have a shared history. We have enjoyed things together, laughed at things, perhaps cried at things together. We have shared stories and given advice or just listened to one another. We might have been drunk together, experienced art together, played games with one another. We may have been important to other members of each other's family. You may have given me far more than I gave in return; or I may have been the giving one, and you the taker. Whatever it was that we shared then, we haven't been sharing for some time now. There is a gap that has been unexplained, and you will have your own theories on what the cause of the gap has been. I will find it impossible to explain the gap, without invoking the pain of difficulty number one and number two, so the gap will probably remain unexplained, causing its own special kind of pain; the pain of the unsaid. I don't really want to experience any more pain right now, so I won't call you. I'm not sure a rabbit is strong enough to hold a bazooka, anyway.

For my part, I don't know why you haven't called me, and I won't speculate. I have frequently felt the need to protect myself from pain over the last few years, cowardly as that is. I often won't answer the phone, because I can't really bear to make myself interact. I stopped sending Christmas cards, because I have always felt the need to share something of myself in them, and really, I don't want to share. There isn't quite enough of me to share because there are people in my life who really, really need me. One of the things I most feel the need to protect myself from is your caring concern. And, yes, you are a caring and concerned person that ordinarily I would value very highly, because if you weren't, you wouldn't be categorised in my head as Friend.

Almost everyone who feels care and concern will have the urge to do something or say something to help 'fix' things. Your inner Bob-the-Builder will leap up and ask me questions about what anyone can do and what has been done, and the answer to these questions will be very, very painful, because we have tried so hard to do everything that can be done, and nothing - nothing - has helped. If there is something to be done, either we have done it, or we have very good and well thought out reasons for not doing it. Believe me. I don't want to experience any more pain right now. Fingers firmly in rabbit ears. La la la. Can’t hear you.

This is all sounding horribly serious, isn't it? I was thinking that friendships are like the ingredients to a recipe. You need a compatible range of them to make a decent meal. You need the fats and the fibre; the sweet and the sour; the salt and the meat. Oh, dear absent Friend, you are part of my recipe, and I do need you. I don't want to think about you not being a part of my life. I will have to find a new way to prepare you or myself, so that there is enough friendship to feed us both. I only wish I was addressing fewer people when I say this, because I have many, many bridges to mend. Perhaps some of you will read this, and begin to understand, and find a way to fix me instead.

I do have a recipe for you though. This pasta dish reminds me of friendships, because you cook most of the ingredients together, and the size that you cut each ingredient to is crucial to the taste. Like friendships.

Roast Sausage and Butternut Pasta

Slice a red onion into semi- or quarter-rings. Cut a butternut into roughly 2 cm cubes. Peel and dice a sweet potato into smaller cubes. Cut some tart apples into quarters, leaving the skin on. Place in a roasting pan with some whole sausages (Linda McCartney’s for vegetarians http://www.lindamccartneyfoods.co.uk/ ; Great Big Sausages from the Good Little Company range for meat eaters http://goodlittlecompany.com/ ). If you have a fan oven, these can be frozen. Drizzle over some olive oil and mix so that everything is covered, shake on a little salt, or it will be too sweet, and some garam masala. You’ll need to stir it again so that the oil-covered food coats the spice. Place in a moderately hot oven (about 190 *C) for as long as it takes to reach a moist, caramelized-ish state, stirring occasionally to ensure flavours combine. In the meantime, cook some pasta on the stove. When the roasting is finished, add the cooked pasta to the pan and stir again. Rich and delish. Enjoy, Friend.