Beezil and I have been friends since we were in college. We lived in the same college dorm, though in different corridors. We met through a bathroom door. It was past 11pm and I was inside one of the stalls doing my thing before retiring for the night when I heard voices. Actually, it was one voice, someone having along conversation with someone else. I was wary, since I had heard so much about girl gangs and the nastiness that can go on within the confines of a large, shared bathroom. I peeked cautiously under the door and saw only one pair of feet. They were sheathed in fluffy slippers and planted firmly in front of a mirror, with whatever I could see of the rest of the person talking to herself swathed in a pink towelling dressing gown. I debated whether I should just go out there and see who this strange but interesting person was, even though my native shyness and painfully activated 'be careful' gene were prodding me in the nose and telling me firmly to be quiet and wait. But then my own madness and somewhat eccentric sense of humour bubbled up and I had to ask, "Do you always talk to yourself?"
There was a startled silence for a second and then a barrage of repartee crossed and re-crossed the stall door. I was done in there and opened the door to peek out. My rather astonished gaze saw a face bare of makeup, eyes large behind big glasses, hair pulled back, the whole topped with a brightly coloured shower cap. It was the start of a long and valuable friendship, that holds strong even today, touch wood, never mind the knives and tantrums and tears. Now that is another story, for perhaps another time...
So that was the girl in the loo, as I called her for a long time in letters home. She did have a name, once that was easy to remember and easier to spell, even though the college administration managed to get it wrong on her mailing address. It wasn't long before I found the ideal nickname for her: Beezil. It was a word I found in an Regency romance novel, used by the hero for the heroine, and it fit my new friend perfectly; neither of us has any clue what it means, but it has a wonderfully warm and creative feel to it, with that touch of madness that is typical of both of us, her perhaps more than me. She and I got up to many hi-jinks, rescuing each other from situations both funny and potentially hazardous to our mental health, individually and collectively, and have managed to stay fond of each other no matter what problems litter the path to laughter.
But our first adventure was Halloween. She was off to a Halloween party and was going, she told me, as a silverware drawer. After that first bit of mouth-opening amazement, I got the idea and it was a truly inspired one. It didn't take much, just the contents of her mother's cutlery shelf, stapled or sewn on to her standard uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. It worked. There were butter knives and regular dining knives spaced through a motley array of spoons, forks, even a fish slice perhaps, though my memory could be telling me stories on that one. Somewhere along the way I may even have helped her make sure that a wire whisk stayed in position. It was a roaring success, she reported later, and the most original costume that evening. I was at my own Halloween celebration - my first since a foray into the streets of Heidelberg dressed as Pippi Longstocking when I was a pre-teen - pretending to be a bat, in all black with glitter spray painted over my hair and a headband with small black bats mounted on wildly waving springs attached to it. It worked, too, perhaps too well, because I had quite a time trying to escape the attentions of a gentleman who believed that he was Batman and therefore needed to get overly friendly with at least one of the species that he said he was kin to. I thought fond thoughts of the knives stapled on my friend's sweatshirt.
Beezil would have offered to use one to help me, if she had been there, I knew.
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