I can’t say I was ever his friend. Back in the day, we were thrust upon each other, like greatness upon Malvolio. When, after graduating, we both found ourselves homeless, we were the most immediately willing to share a flat. The rental window was small, and required almost instant action. Being selective about a renting partner would certainly have resulted in a continuation of our itinerant condition. 

We had known each other as Humanities undergraduates. His error had been Philosophy, in which he had graduated without a First, mine English Literature, in which I had also graduated without a First. Our paths crossed because of the woman he was dating in third year, another English graduate with whom I was also never a friend, but with whom I shared lectures and tutorials and with whom I became closely acquainted. By the time she was graduating, the university had caught itself on, overcome its sense of inferiority, changed its managers and its professors, and awarded her its first First in English Literature. 

Neither of them ever saw me as a friend, of that I am almost sure. We were useful to each other. The nature of our relationships meant that they were unencumbered by loyalty. Intellectual, if that’s the word, rivals, we barely rated each other: philosophy and the arts rarely made stranger bedfellows. We honed our snobbery together in the happy valley of postgraduate studies. I was, of course, the brightest of the three, a ranking they would dispute. Well, they would, wouldn’t they, to misquote Mandy Rice-Davis. ​​​​​​​