Once upon a time...

I promised myself I wasn’t going to start this off with once upon a time.

I don’t like clichés, least of all the fairytale variety. The blonde princess with the ten-inch waist falls in love with Prince Charming and rides sidesaddle into the sunset? Please.

How many women does Prince Charming have on the roster, anyway – the man was the original polygamist. Or the original cheating asshole.

The more I think about it though, I suppose once upon a time is the most romantic introduction you can get.

Don’t worry, I’m not talking about real romance in its dramatic Hollywood form. The last thing anyone wants to hear about in this day and age is someone else’s unluckiness in love, or worse, success. I’m talking the romance between a writer and her greatest loves, her pen (or in the 21st century, her laptop), and her beloved readers. Remember the romance of the height of magazine columns, the newspaper opinion pieces about fashion, about travel, about the life you’d rather be living? Think Kelly Piquet, or Arlene Dahl. That sort of romance.

Back when being a writer didn’t mean copy writing someone else’s jargon, or going on strike, or the fear of AI coming to steal your livelihood. When writing for the legacy, writing for the joy, writing for the sake of writing reigned. For storytelling, for art, for the next generation, or just for yourself.

If I haven’t lost you by now, you’re going to fit in well here, but it probably is time I get to the point.

I can promise you one thing – I am certainly not living the life you’d rather be living. My day to day isn’t particularly spectacular. For the last indeterminate blur of time, I’ve found myself simply going through the motions. I have a good job, a beautiful family, I’m healthy. All the stuff we take for granted.

But what is the highlight of my mundane existence, you may ask? Where is it that I draw this aforementioned elusive romantic inspiration?

Who are the people who love me like no other, fiercely defend me when I’m in the right and fiercely defend me but also tell me when I’m wrong? Who answer my phone calls at 3am, celebrate me on my best days, and hold my hand (and my hair) on my worst?

My guardian angels, my moral compasses, my jesters, my cheerleaders. My girls.

Jen, she’s the level-headed one. She’s calm, she’s collected. The longest fuse of any woman I’ve ever known. She was born to be a CEO, and a damn good one. The therapist of the group.

And Eperly. She’s the crazy one. Creative, loud, and up for anything. The enabler of the group.

And then there’s me. I would say I’m somewhere in the middle. I balance the two. Logical, until I’m not. Jen would call me hot-headed. Eperly would call me fun. I would agree with both.

Every Friday night, we hit the town. Well, we used to at least. The closer we get to our 30s, that looks more and more like a shared bottle of prosecco and home by 10pm.

Our conversations aren’t necessarily groundbreaking. They may not provide a discourse that will save the world or incite major change. But in a time where our brains are being turned to mush through our screens and human connection is weakened by political rhetoric and fake news, conversations like the ones we have are the ones that seem to be getting quietly lost in all the noise.

By now, you’ve probably figured out I’m no Arlene Dahl. But I’ve been thinking for a while, that those pure, real conversations, the ones you have with your best friends about everything and nothing, about your shoes, your boss, your pet peeves, your deep fears, now more than ever, they need a place to exist.

Maybe that’s what these entries will be – an exposé on the little things. Because perhaps that is the only real romance we have left.

If you’d like to join, next Friday we’ll grab an extra flute. But if you already have plans, don’t sweat it, because while you’re waking up next Saturday morning taking that first euphoric sip of your weekend coffee in your favourite mug, you’ll know where to go to catch up.