I’ve just lost my best friend. And I feel like I’ve had a divorce

Worse than a break up? Definitely.

If you’ve followed me for a while, you’re probably aware of two things; a) I’m a massive nerd and b) I’m squarer than a square dance held in a brutalist conference centre. So it will probably come as no shock to you at all that, until this month, my best friend in the whole world was a fifty-something year old man with a borderline- obsessive interest in the lingual capabilities of dolphins. I know. It came as a shock to me too.

I know who my best friend should be. She should be female, mid twenties, hipster, super sarcastic and an expert in Icelandic poetry. She should be called Persephone or Marseille. She should have gone to St Andrew’s or Durham and leave everyone wondering if we’re a couple at a ceildh. That’s who you expect me to list as a best friend. But, as with so much of life, I found myself bizarrely, totally, completely enwrangled with a man I shall call Stuart. Make no mistake: Stuart was my best friend. Full on, seven-year-old-intensity best friends. The kind of friend you lunge to be with when the teacher says to form groups of two. That kind of friend.

What did we have in common? Basically nothing. He liked sci-fi, I liked thrillers. He liked peanut butter, I have a horrific allergy to them. He liked football…