Hurricanes… I'm sorry. I want you back.

Yellow roses are traditionally considered a symbol of… friendship. With or without benefits.

I'm sorry, Hurricanes. Can you ever forgive me? I want you back. 

I may be looking back with the hubristic, faux wisdom that only leaving 40 in your rear view mirror can install, post-rationalising and all. Yet, deep down I do admit I was wrong.

When we first met one night at the end of last millennium, the world was our Tuatua: we were in our prime, the playing field was lush, we were cashed up and only interested in the razzle-dazzle of life. While Republica blared and the Chardonnay flowed, it seemed we couldn't lose. The stars shone and the flash-bulbs popped, whether we were on the red carpet or just out on the tiles. Life was as easy as A-B-C (Allen-Blair-Courtenay). Maybe everything did not go our way, but we did everything with a certain je nais know what… and I knew people envied us. Envied me. It was a whirlwind that always provided the unexpected. Hell, we came to expect the unexpected! I was the luckiest bloke around.

Travelling. Entertaining. The pressures of commitment year in, year out. Those all began to take a physical and emotional toll. It started to cramp the purse strings as other, more grown-up pursuits began to raise their heads. Fingers were pointed when things began to go wrong, words were said - and I admit I was quick to blame. I guess I could not handle the late nights out at any cost now, and our 'thing' started to become more casual, and then became a 'distance relationship' as I headed overseas.

I heard on the ex-pat grapevine that all of a sudden you stopped hanging with our old mates from our home towns. You took up with a clique of big city boys exclusively, and I could not forgive this loss of 'roots'. While I was away(in my mind broadening myself) you were becoming more hermit-like. This blinded you, weakened you; made you more vulnerable I thought. Some of those old friends have still not forgiven you. I guess I was not comfortable with your new priorities, but I failed to reach out to you. Though I crossed the ocean to come back home, I couldn't bridge that last small measure – the gap between us was now too big.

By the time you did look to change it was too late for me - and even though I was not sure you were seeking help in the right place, I failed to speak up. The sudden adjustments you made in your lifestyle I couldn't support. I know you had to do something, but cutting yourself off from your oldest friends seemed to much. You disappeared then. Let yourself go, and went off the radar to reboot, trying weirdo cleanse methods I could not condone.

I turned me back on you. I was wrong to do that.

But I saw you again, earlier this year and I almost didn't recognise you. You looked… younger. More vibrant, yet somehow calmer & confident. Who am I kidding - you looked hot! And you came over and greeted me… it was YOU who approached me again and said 'Hi'. I melted.

It's not a complete reconciliation yet, some hurt remains. But you have recovered from that self-improvement mumbo-jumbo of the last 3 years, and we have been seeing each other again over this year, testing the waters… as friends. Warm familiarity is steadily simmering into something more - maybe.  

“Are you doing anything next Saturday night?” you asked. You didn't have - you had me at Round 4. Like that Telecom ad from 1986, I even put on that old scarf you gave me this week.

This week you face the biggest night of your life, the final step in your rebuild and I'll be there to support you as you emerge Hungry-Caterpillar-like from your chrysallis.

The KLF once sang "What Time Is Love?". If it still stands a chance, I think we'll know about 9.05pm this Saturday night. This is certainly whatever passes for it at my age. It is definitely a new faith though, and admission of the bond between us, forged through good times and… fog.

I'm sorry. I was a fickle, emotional, wavering twat. Can you ever forgive me?