Let the mortification continue...

Jamie has a real thing right now for the concept of 'best friends'. Narry an hour goes by without a 'Who your best friend?', 'Who Grandma best friend?' or 'Who that man best friend?'. As in the stranger we can barely see across the road. The little man himself has several best friends which change capriciously depending on which way the wind is blowing, or most likely who is in his physical locality at that specific moment in time.

Not content with trying to pimp me out to inappropriate people, Jamie is also now offering a friendship service. Maybe he read my post last week about being socially awkward. Any time I converse with anyone, be it the gas man, a shopkeeper, an elderly neighbour... I'm interrupted with first, 'What's its name?' Jamie can remember that we bought him an ice cream, one time only, two years ago from a specific shop. He remembers the driving directions to get to the airport. But he can't ever remember names. Or for that matter, personal pronouns. It's always 'What's its name? or 'What's it called?'. Cringe.

So then, as I either ignore him (if I myself don't know what 'it' is called), or say 'You know Sheila, she lives upstairs.' or 'You know the man in the shop, we come here everyday' he then launches into the dreaded question, 'She / He your best friend?'. This is of course, a no-win situation. To say, 'Yes, this shopkeeper is my best friend' or 'Yes, the retiree that lives upstairs is my best friend' has the more-than likely outcome of advertising me as Amanda-No-Mates to all and sundry. But 'No, they're not my best friend' seems a bit harsh. The shopkeeper is only new to this country and Sheila is a pensioner, so perhaps I'm their best friend.