Synchronicity and strength

Some serendipitous and strange things have happened lately. In the last week, I've bumped into/heard from three friends (separately) who I had last seen at least 12 years ago. They are all from an era of my life that brings forth nostalgia and makes me feel grown-up because of the passage of time. The latest one was an ex-colleague going home on the train this evening – he was a thoroughly decent individual then, and still is now. Oddly, I know all three from the same place.

I've exchanged details with the trio and hope to meet up soon, so we can recall those heady days of unbridled energy and a large capacity for alcohol and several nights out in a row. Now, two of them are parents.

My tipple was always a black Russian. I cannot even sniff one now following an incident in a certain night club when I was 23 and the fresh air hit me after I downed eight of them. Ugh. I recall thinking, as consciousness faded in and out like a Belisha beacon as my head slumped on to the bar, that this was no way to die, that my parents would be deeply ashamed and upset, and that my face would be on the front of the newspaper for which I worked.

Aside from these chance meetings, I have worked like a mule. S, his colleague and I have been working in Liverpool, a city I last visited in 2005. The people are, on the whole, either fabulous, gregarious souls who could talk the legs off several donkeys, or simply your average Joes and Janes. Every town has its characters but the Scousers – some of them – are peculiarly and particularly funny and interesting.

Luck struck here, too, as we inadvertently met people who were interconnected with some we had met while travelling to other towns (one is very well known, which was a bonus). It was exceptionally weird. There is definitely something magnetic in the air. (Yesterday, I even read my tarot cards for the first time in years, as I felt so affected. They made me smile.)

But, this morning at breakfast, burdened with lack of sleep and exhaustion so deep I could barely speak, I sat alone watching the rain cascade down the wide, cold Liverpudlian hotel windows. The water streamed diagonally across the glass like furious tears. It was grey outside and I was grey. I matched Liverpool. It was 7.45am or so, and my work companions were still in their bedrooms, asleep. I, of course, had to get up early due to my sleep programme. I had not slept at all well and felt ill. I picked my way through the cooked breakfast. The best bit was the strong, black tea.

My tiredness is all-encompassing and I am, at times, made mad with it. I feel, on occasion, that I cannot possibly do another thing. But I do. So, I must be stronger than I think.