Dear Joely: My Best Friend Shagged Someone Beside Me

When your best friend crosses a boundary you didn't know needed explaining

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Dear Joely,

You seem good at holiday problems so I thought I'd write in. I happened to find you while scrolling by the pool. My best friend (let's call her Christine) and I are both 24 and have known one another since secondary school. We are very close. There's no one either of us knows better in the world. We are called "the fixture" by my family. She's on the next sun lounge as I type this, but things are a bit strained at the moment.

We recently came to Tenerife on a holiday break, for a week. We looked forward to the trip as we have all our holidays in the past. Our days are made up of sunning ourselves, reading, chatting and swimming. In the afternoons we go back to the apartment and take our time getting ready for the evenings, a few drinks, getting showered and dressed and then out for dinner, more drinks, dancing and fun.

Last night was just like that. We both drank probably too much. Well, it was too much. At some point, I knew I needed to go back to the apartment. Christine wanted to stay out. I didn't think that was a problem. She was having fun with a guy. We weren't far away from the apartment. So I told her goodnight and told her to have a good night.

The sun shines in the curtains in the mornings and this morning was no exception. I felt as rough as a badger's arse. I looked over at Christine's bed. It was then that I realised she wasn't alone. I think it was the guy she was last dancing with when I left. To be honest, who cares? They weren't just sleeping, they were actually shagging. You know, in that kind of "let's do it quietly so we don't wake her up" sort of way.

I felt the bile rising in my throat, and I ran to the toilet and was sick. My head was banging and I was suddenly so angry I could barely see. I went back to my bed and just yelled at him to get the f*&% out. Christine started to protest. I just kept yelling, "Get out."

Things have been strained between us, to say the least, since this morning. I've got my dark glasses on and I'm under an umbrella on my sun bed, as I said. But I'm furious with her. She's tried to talk to me, but I won't have it. I just can't believe she'd treat me like this. I hope you can answer me urgently.

Yours,
Barf & Bitter

Dear Barf & Bitter,

First things first: your friend should not have brought a man back to your shared bedroom and shagged him while you were asleep three feet away.

I don't care how quietly they did it. Sex is not made private by reducing the volume.

You were entitled to wake up furious. You were entitled to tell him to leave. And Christine owes you an apology for deciding, without consulting you, that your shared bedroom could become hers for the night while you remained inconveniently unconscious in the other bed.

So far, I'm entirely under your umbrella.

But now I'm going to pull my sun lounge slightly away from yours.

You say, "I just can't believe she'd treat me like this."

Like what, exactly?

Because there are two possible offences here, and I'm not convinced you know which one has made you so angry.

Imagine the same morning again. Same murderous hangover. Same Tenerife sun drilling through the curtains. You roll over and Christine's bed is empty.

An hour later, she wanders in wearing last night's dress and somebody else's grin. She tells you she went home with the man from the bar and had spectacular sex.

Are you furious?

If the answer is no, excellent. We know what happened. Christine violated a perfectly reasonable boundary about your shared room, behaved selfishly while drunk, and now needs to apologise. You need to stop refusing to speak to her long enough to let her do it. You've been friends since secondary school. Don't turn one inconsiderate shag into the Treaty of Tenerife.

But if you're reading this and thinking, Actually, Joely, I'd still have hated it...

Then I'd be interested in that.

You call yourselves "the fixture". Your family calls you "the fixture". You holiday together. You have your rituals: sun lounges, books, swimming, the leisurely transformation from daytime selves into evening selves. And you tell me there's no one in the world who knows either of you better.

That's a beautiful friendship.

It may also have become an arrangement whose terms you've stopped examining.

Sometimes the most intimate friendships acquire invisible rules. We don't announce them because we don't realise they're rules. You'll choose me. I'll choose you. Other people may come and go, but this is the relationship that remains. This particular territory belongs to us.

Then somebody wanders into the territory wearing nightclub trousers and suddenly we discover there was a border.

I'm not telling you you're jealous of Christine. I'm certainly not telling you you're secretly in love with her. Perhaps neither is remotely true.

I'm asking whether you felt displaced.

Because your reaction interests me. You weren't merely irritated. You were incandescent. And somewhere between the badger's arse, the vomiting and the strange man moving rhythmically in the next bed, several different kinds of nausea may have become acquainted.

Incidentally, I wouldn't place too much evidentiary weight on the vomiting. You had drunk far too much and woke with your head banging. Christine's sex life may be many things, but I'm not yet prepared to hold it legally responsible for your stomach.

What I would do is take off the dark glasses, turn towards the woman on the next sun lounge and let her speak.

She may say, "I'm so sorry. I was drunk, I wasn't thinking and I behaved appallingly."

She may say, "I genuinely didn't think you'd care."

She may even say something that makes you angrier.

But at the moment you don't know, because you've sentenced your oldest friend before hearing her defence.

And when she has finished, tell her why you were angry.

Not just "You shouldn't have done that."

Tell her what hurt.

If all that hurt was waking beside an unsolicited live sex show, that's quite enough.

But if something else hurt too, don't be frightened of looking at it. You don't have to give it a name immediately. You just have to be honest enough to notice it.

You asked me urgently, so here is your emergency holiday prescription:

Drink some water. Eat something salty. Stop looking at Christine over the top of your sunglasses as though you're Joan Collins discovering a second will. And talk to your friend.

You have several days of Tenerife left.

Don't give the best sun lounge to a grudge.

Yours, in better boundaries and separate bedrooms,
Joely

Dear Joely: Was I Just His Wank Bank?

The memories are warm. The messages are filthy. Then she suggests meeting in real life and discovers just how little of the relationship exists outside his trousers.

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Dear Joely,

An unanswered message has hurt me a bit, and I thought you might be able to give me some perspective.

Yes, it’s a man involved.

This man is not a current lover, far from it. I am not trying to win him back, and I wasn’t expecting some grand romantic reunion at the airport.

Here it is in a nutshell.

I met him when I was about 24, living and working in Scotland. I’m in Australia now. We worked together. He was married with two young children. We fell very hard for each other, and I became the other woman.

It went on for a few years and was exactly as intoxicating and dreadful as those situations tend to be. Ecstatic highs, terrible pain, an astonishing amount of sex and not nearly enough sense. I remember being convinced that I could no sooner hold back the tide than stop loving him.

Eventually he left his marriage, but he did not leave it for me. He left me as well and began a relationship with another woman from the office. They lived together for five years. I was heartbroken for much longer than I care to admit.

But somehow we never disappeared completely from one another’s lives.

Over the next thirty-five years there were occasional calls and messages. He would bring up old moments between us, sometimes very sentimental ones, as though they still meant something to him. I listened. I gave my best advice when he went through difficult times.

We have slept together a few times since, on my rare trips back. Our connection had always been intensely sexual.

About ten years ago, I suggested meeting while on one such trip and he sent me a very harsh reply. It was so dismissive that something in me finally woke up. I stopped speaking to him for years.

Then, around five years ago, he contacted me and asked whether I was really never going to speak to him again. We began corresponding once more. Some of it was ordinary conversation, some of it reminiscing, and quite a lot of it sexual.

To be blunt, I began to wonder whether I had become little more than a sort of wank bank.

He has old and newer photographs of me. He sends sexual scenarios and dick pics. I have joined in and sent him nude photographs too, although the truth is that I wasn’t really getting much from it anymore.

I wasn’t pining for him. I wasn’t imagining a future.

I simply thought there was affection there. History. Some basic friendship after all this time.

I told him I am going to Scotland for a holiday in a few months and will be flying home from his area. I asked whether he might like to spend a couple of days together at the end of the trip. I made it easy for him. I said that if he was happily involved with someone, or it simply wasn’t appropriate, that was completely fine.

He answered the next day with a breathless little message about how lovely the trip sounded, complete with enough exclamation marks to frighten a flock of birds, but he did not acknowledge my suggestion that we meet.

Not yes. Not no. Not even, “I’ll think about it.”

He simply stepped around it and carried on.

I wasn’t expecting sex. I wasn’t expecting declarations. I wasn’t even necessarily expecting him to say yes.

I was expecting a reply. I thought he'd be pleased to see me after all this time.

I think what has upset me is that for years he has spoken about our shared past as though it mattered to him. He has recalled rooms, moments, sex, things we said and things we did. He has accepted my listening, my advice, my photographs and my availability. He has behaved as though there is some tenderness attached to that history.

Yet when I appeared in the present as an actual person, asking for nothing more than a courteous answer, he vanished.

It feels awful. Worse, it feels familiar.

Not because I am still in love with him. I’m not.

It feels awful because I thought that after thirty-five years we had become old friends. Or, at the very least, two people who had once meant enough to each other to warrant basic respect.

Am I making too much of an unanswered message?

Or have I finally understood that he is sentimental about the memories, but not especially concerned with the woman who lived them?

Yours,
Closing an Account

Dear Closing an Account,

You are not upset because he did not agree to see you. You are upset because he could not bring himself to answer you plainly.

That distinction matters.

For years, he has revisited the history between you. He has remembered the sex, the rooms, the private moments and the woman who once loved him beyond reason. He has accepted your photographs, your attention, your advice and your willingness to enter his fantasies. This has apparently required no shortage of enthusiasm on his part.

Yet the moment you asked him to meet you in real life, he became strangely short of words.

There is something shabby about a man who can summon the energy to maintain a wank bank but not the manners to acknowledge the account holder.

He may insist, if challenged, that the memories meant something to him. Perhaps they did. But sentiment is very easy when it asks nothing of us. It can survive for decades on reminiscence, fantasy and selective tenderness. Ask it to do something as ordinary as answer an invitation and suddenly the whole structure begins to wobble.

That is because nostalgia can imitate intimacy for a very long time.

You thought the two of you had become old friends. He appears to have thought he had retained access to an old lover.

Those are not the same arrangement.

The unanswered message was not the wound. It was the diagnosis.

Never mistake someone’s ability to remember you for their willingness to show up for you. They are entirely different talents.

He has shown a considerable gift for the first and very little appetite for the second.

Do not ask again. Do not send a wounded follow-up. Do not explain why his response hurt you. Do not provide him with another opportunity to turn your perfectly reasonable expectation into an emotional discussion he can avoid, minimise or eroticise.

And when he next returns with a sentimental memory in one hand and his trousers unfastened with the other, do not confuse the performance with affection.

The house of cards has already fallen. You are simply no longer obliged to crawl underneath it looking for friendship.

Yours, in closed accounts and considerably better investments,
Joely

Dear Joely: I Punished My Daughter for Sending Nudes. Then She Found My Video.

She reacted to her daughter’s humiliation with fury and punishment. Then her unlocked phone delivered a brutal lesson in empathy.

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Dear Joely,

I live in the south-west of England. I have a daughter (14) whose sending of ‘nudes’ to her one-time boyfriend was exposed at school in the most unpleasant way.

She found out the hard way that (a) the male of the species is not always to be trusted and (b) there are consequences for her actions.

I wish I could say that I was understanding and supportive when I found out about this (by being summoned to the headteacher's office), but my first reaction was judgmental and punitive. I grounded her for two weeks and confiscated her phone.

Obviously this meant that we were at each other's throats for days and that she had to deal, not only with the mortification and heartbreak of her situation, but with her banshee of a mother.

I am embarrassed by how I handled it and wish I could press rewind.

This next bit, I actually find hard to write and am only doing so because I am in bits, because you guarantee anonymity and because I genuinely need direction.

I have been dating now and then on the apps over the past year or so. I've had some fun times but mostly, I find it very disappointing.

A few weeks ago, I 'met' a man through a phone app. There was something I found very attractive about him and after a short back and forth, our messages got saucier. Before long we were sexting.

I found it fun and a bit of a turn-on.

One day my daughter was asking me why I hadn't commented on a link she'd sent me about something or another. I yelled out from the next room that I hadn't received it.

She picked up my phone from the bench, which was unlocked because I was playing music from it, and next thing, she's into my WhatsApp account, which is where I'd been chatting to the guy I mentioned.

I had sent him a short video in which I was naked, but worse, I was doing something he had asked me to do - I won't go into details but let's just say it was very much adult content.

Next thing, my daughter is in the doorway playing the video, the volume switched up to max. She stared at me and just said in a really cold voice "Nice, Mum. Really nice."

I could have died. I literally didn't have words. I took the phone from her, I'm sure I went as red as a beetroot, went into my room, locked the door and cried for several hours.

It's now the next day and I had to call in sick for work. I realise I'm the worst mother on the planet and I don't know what to do.

Yours,
Hypocrite doesn't begin to cover it

Dear Hypocrite Doesn’t Begin to Cover It,

First, you are not the worst mother on the planet. You are a frightened, mortified mother who reacted badly to her daughter’s crisis, then discovered, with almost theatrical precision, how easy it is to do the very thing you condemned.

That does not make your daughter’s situation and yours identical. She is fourteen. Her image was shared by someone she trusted, and she is dealing with the cruelty, humiliation and possible wider circulation of intimate material while still a child. Your video was made and sent as an adult, by choice, to another adult.

But it does mean you now understand something you did not understand in the headteacher’s office: intelligence, dignity and good judgement do not make anyone immune to desire, trust, impulsiveness or the belief that a private moment will remain private.

So go to your daughter.

Do not begin with an explanation of why your case is different. Do not make her comfort you. Do not ask her to pretend she did not see it.

Say something like:

“I am deeply embarrassed by what you saw, but I am more sorry for how I treated you. I reacted from fear and anger when you were already hurt and humiliated. I punished you when what you needed first was safety and support. I understand that now in a way I did not yesterday. I am sorry.”

Then listen.

She may be furious. She may laugh. She may say something designed to make you want to crawl under the floorboards. You will have to survive that without reaching for authority as a shield.

After that, deal with the practical part of her situation. Find out whether her images have been shared further, whether she is being bullied or threatened, and whether the school’s safeguarding lead is supporting her properly. In the UK, Childline’s Report Remove service can help young people under eighteen report sexual images of themselves online and seek their removal. If she is being threatened or made to feel unsafe, CEOP also accepts reports from young people and parents.

And yes, talk about phones, privacy and intimate images. But this time, have the conversation as two human beings who have both discovered that a glowing rectangle can turn private desire into public catastrophe with appalling speed.

You are not disqualified from motherhood because your daughter saw evidence that you are also a sexual adult. You are being offered something much more uncomfortable and useful: the chance to replace judgement with honesty.

Pressing rewind is unavailable.

Repair is not.

Yours, in second chances and considerably stronger passwords,
Joely

Dear Joely: Two Women Turn Every Friday Lunch into an Accounting Tribunal

The meal is pleasant. The company is good. Then the bill arrives and eight grown women begin reconstructing lunch from witness statements.

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Dear Joely,

I’m sure this is a problem as old as time, but I am living it and it sh*%s me every time it happens. Perhaps you can help.

A group of six to eight women from my office goes out to a fairly basic restaurant for lunch on Fridays. It’s a good way for us to catch up without the interruptions of work. The boss knows and allows us a little more than the allocated hour, which is nice.

At the end, we get the bill. Most of us are perfectly happy to split it, except for two members of the group who insist on paying separately.

It always turns into a palaver while all the adding and subtracting goes on. Then, without fail, there is another mini-deliberation about the tip.

Usually, I’ve had a nice meal and enjoyed the conversation, but when this happens I can’t help throwing the stink-eye at the culprits. Last time, I think I even sighed out loud.

I should add that none of us drinks alcohol at these lunches, so it’s not as though these two Karens are being asked to subsidise somebody else’s bottle of wine.

Am I being unreasonable, or are they?

Yours billigerently,
Cathy

Dear Billigerent Cathy,

The problem is not that two women want to pay only for what they ordered. That is perfectly reasonable.

The problem is that eight hungry adults are attempting to perform forensic accounting beside a cooling plate of chips.

Splitting the bill works beautifully when everyone has spent roughly the same amount and nobody minds subsidising somebody else’s extra side of halloumi. Paying separately also works beautifully when the restaurant is told at the beginning, rather than when the bill arrives and Sandra suddenly begins reconstructing lunch from witness statements.

So next Friday, say this before anybody orders:

“Can we decide now whether we’re splitting the bill or paying individually? If anyone wants to pay separately, perhaps we can let the waiter know before we start.”

That is not rude. It is administration, and administration is best conducted before dessert.

As for the tip, agree on a percentage and divide it in the same manner as the meal. There should be no second summit meeting unless the waiter has performed CPR.

And retire the word “Karens”. They may be parsimonious, exacting or simply watching their money. You are allowed to dislike the palaver without turning two colleagues into a meme.

The stink-eye may remain, but deploy it sparingly. Like truffle oil, too much ruins lunch.

Yours, with the calculator already open,
Joely

Dear Joely: My Boyfriend Gave Me the Holiday Ick

Seven nights in Greece, one shared bathroom and rather more information about her boyfriend than she bargained for.

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Dear Joely,

I've been in a relationship with a guy for almost eight months now. We met on Tinder and it felt like a great match from the start. He just seems to get me. We don't live together. I'm still with my folks, and he's in a share house.

This summer, we decided to go on holiday together.

It was the first time I'd been away with a boyfriend and also my first time in Greece. I'm 22 and he's 25. We went for a seven-night package, and it was all very exciting at first. The weather was beautiful, with nothing but sunshine each day.

On the other hand...

I'm not really sure how to put this delicately, so I'll just go for it. I didn't know that in Greece you can't flush the toilet paper. Not until I got there. I must be a bit of a princess because I found that unbearable.

Also, a couple of days in, I noticed I wasn't feeling quite as into my boyfriend anymore. I was starting to see things about him that I hadn't at home.

He would take his book into the toilet with him each morning and spend an hour in there. I'm not even kidding. I found this just gross. I didn't know how to approach the subject with him, so I let it be.

I also didn't like seeing his used toilet paper in there when I had to use the toilet. Just eeeeuuuwwww!

He was really messy with his stuff too. I like to keep a hotel room tidy. I asked him about this, but he didn't seem to take me seriously.

About halfway through, he got a stomach bug. This made the whole toilet situation worse. I kept finding myself torn between wanting to be caring and not being able to bear it, so I would leave the room and go for walks by myself. I took to using the public toilet rather than the one in our room.

It got pretty bad because I was even doing my makeup in a compact mirror rather than going to use the main bathroom mirror.

I'm sure I sound horrible, but even though there were a few other things that bugged me, this is the last thing I'm going to mention.

When he wasn't sick and we were exploring the island, I found he would talk down to the Greek people, as though he thought he was better than them. I was really embarrassed.

I just got quieter and quieter over the course of the trip. I suppose I went into myself. I also didn't fancy him much, and we didn't have a lot of sex, which is not like us.

Now we're home, and I don't know whether to try to put this whole sorry holiday behind us and get back to the way we were, or face the fact that I get on a lot better with him when we don't share accommodation. Which, to me, doesn't seem like it has much of a future in it.

I had the idea to write when I read that other letter to you about the ick. My situation seems a bit different, though.

I hope you can help.

Yours,

Cor-feeuuwww

Dear Cor-feeuuwww,

There is nothing quite like a first holiday together for stripping the soft lighting off a relationship.

At home, you see your boyfriend in portions. A dinner here, a sleepover there, perhaps a weekend if everyone is feeling brave. On holiday, there is nowhere for the ordinary machinery of a person to hide. You see how they pack, how they sulk, how they cope with illness, how they treat waiters, how long they occupy the bathroom and whether they regard the hotel floor as a wardrobe with better lighting.

So let us begin with the toilet paper.

You are not a monster because you found the Greek plumbing arrangements revolting. You were unfamiliar with them, sharing a small bathroom with a man who apparently regarded it as both lavatory and reading room, and then he became ill. That is enough to test even the most fragrant of romances.

The hour-long morning bathroom occupation would irritate many people. The fact that you did not know how to raise it says something too. After eight months, you should be able to say, “Darling, I love you, but I also need access to the toilet before breakfast.”

The mess is also not trivial simply because it involves socks and toiletries. You told him it bothered you, and he did not take you seriously. Shared living is built from tiny acts of consideration. Nobody has to keep a hotel room like an operating theatre, but they do have to notice when the person beside them is becoming distressed.

His stomach bug is the part for which I would offer him the most mercy. Illness is graceless, and very few people become more alluring while their digestive system is staging a coup. You were not wrong to struggle with it, though disappearing for walks while he was unwell may be worth thinking about. A long-term relationship eventually asks us to care for someone when they are inconvenient, unattractive and producing evidence we would rather not inspect.

But the detail I would not wave away is the way he spoke to Greek people.

That is not holiday mess. That is not plumbing. That is not a stomach bug.

It is character.

A person who talks down to local people while enjoying their country is showing you how he behaves when he believes he is entitled to something. Embarrassment in those moments is often the body’s way of saying, “Pay attention. This matters.”

You say you became quieter and quieter. That may be the most important sentence in your letter.

You did not merely lose sexual interest. You began withdrawing from the relationship while still standing inside it.

That is not simply a story about getting the ick. It is also a story about what happens between you when something is wrong.

Do not make a decision based solely on whether you fancied him while he had diarrhoea. Very few romances survive that particular lighting test with dignity.

But do not rush to “get back to the way you were” either. The way you were depended partly on not having seen certain things.

You now need one honest conversation.

Not a prosecution. Not a catalogue of his bathroom crimes. Tell him the trip made you realise that you communicate badly when uncomfortable, that you felt dismissed when you raised the mess, and that you were genuinely troubled by the way he spoke to Greek people.

Then watch what he does.

Does he listen?

Does he laugh it off?

Does he blame you for being precious?

Does he become curious about your experience?

Does he show any shame about his behaviour towards the locals, or only embarrassment that you noticed?

The future of the relationship is not hiding in the waste-paper bin. It is in his response.

You may discover that the trip exposed some manageable habits and one miserable week. Or you may discover that the version of him you liked best was the version you only ever met in carefully measured doses.

Either answer is useful.

And for what it is worth, there is no shame in learning that you do not want to share a bathroom with someone for the rest of your life. Civilisations have collapsed over less.

Yours, from the public toilets with my compact mirror,
Joely

Dear Joely: My Sock Drawer Has Become a Personality

Dear Joely,

I am a 32-year-old man who, on paper at least, seems to have his life reasonably sorted. I have a decent job in IT, my own flat in a middling part of town, and I can cook a passable spaghetti bolognese without setting off the smoke alarm every time. Yet here I am, writing to you with a problem that feels both ridiculous and strangely genuine.

The issue is my socks. Yes, really. For the past year or so, I have developed what can only be described as a mild obsession with buying new pairs of socks. Colourful ones, thick hiking ones, those fancy bamboo ones that promise to eliminate odour (they do not), and even a pair with little pineapples on them that make me smile every time I put them on. My sock drawer now resembles a jumble sale, and every time I open it, I feel a strange mix of pride and panic.

The trouble is that my girlfriend of six months has started to notice. She is practical, organised, and the sort of person who folds her T-shirts with military precision. Last week she suggested we “have a clear-out”, and I found myself defending my pineapple socks as if they were treasured family heirlooms. I mumbled something about self-expression and personal joy, but I fear I sounded unhinged.

Deep down, I know this is probably a symptom of something else, maybe a fear of proper grown-up commitment, or the creeping realisation that I am hurtling towards middle age with nothing more substantial to show for it than an impressive collection of foot coverings.

I do love her, and I want to be the sort of man who has his life together rather than one who argues passionately in defence of novelty hosiery. But every time I try to throw a pair away, I hesitate. What if those are the socks that finally bring me luck, or at least a decent day?

Please tell me if I am being absurd, or whether this is a perfectly normal male rite of passage that no one talks about. Any advice on how to balance sock-related happiness with not driving my girlfriend up the wall would be gratefully received.

Yours in mild embarrassment,

Sock Hoarder from Surrey

Dear Sock Hoarder,

You are not having a commitment crisis. You are having a storage crisis wearing tiny pineapples.

The socks themselves are not the problem. Colourful socks are harmless, cheerful and considerably preferable to many of the hobbies available to a 32-year-old man with disposable income and internet access. You could be collecting vintage swords, cryptocurrency or opinions about craft beer. Novelty hosiery is practically civic-minded.

What matters is whether buying them has become compulsive, expensive, secretive or emotionally loaded. If you are spending money you cannot afford, hiding purchases, or using new socks to anaesthetise yourself every time life feels dull, then yes, there may be something worth examining beneath the bamboo blend.

But from what you describe, this sounds less like a psychological emergency and more like a small source of pleasure that has outgrown its allotted drawer.

Your girlfriend is also not unreasonable. She sees chaos. You see possibility. Both of you are being honest, although only one of you appears to believe a pineapple can improve morale from the ankle down.

So do not stage a brutal purge. Create a system.

Keep the pairs you genuinely wear and love. Throw away any that are stretched, uncomfortable, holey, mysteriously single or capable of standing upright unaided. Put the rest into one defined space. When that space is full, one pair must leave before another pair enters. This is not oppression. It is border control.

And do not surrender the pineapple socks. Every relationship needs one object that makes no sense to the other person but is nevertheless protected by treaty.

As for your fear that the socks represent all you have to show for adulthood, I would point out that you have a job, a flat, a relationship and a bolognese that only occasionally threatens the fire brigade. That is a perfectly respectable life. Adulthood is not proved by owning fewer socks. It is proved by knowing which ones are worth keeping.

With full support for regulated pineapple retention,

Joely

Dear Joely: My Friend Ditched Me for a Pub Fixture

Dear Joely,

I'm a 55-year-old woman living in Melbourne. I have a good female friend, a bit older than me, whom I have known for many years. We don't catch up often enough, but when we do, we always vow not to leave it so long before getting together again.

When we do get together, we normally start with dinner and a catch-up. The wine begins to flow, and then we go to a few bars for drinks afterwards. Because it's such a rare thing, it's not unusual to get a bit tipsy and find ourselves doing something silly like karaoke or dancing with very young men. The next day, we text to compare hangovers. It might seem a bit childish, but for us, it seems to be a good way to dust off the cobwebs.

On the last occasion, we ended up in this rather awful bar. Many of the men there looked as though the place was their second home. They seemed to come up to us one after the other and try their luck. I found it rather dull and would have preferred to carry on talking together, but my friend started getting all giggly and girly with one of these men. I was trying my best not to be bitchy towards the man involved. Smile politely, etc.

My friend at one point excused herself to go to the ladies. After she left, the man tried harder to get a laugh out of me, but I was not impressed. At one point, he asked me if I'd rather he left me alone, and I actually nodded. So he left, and I waited for my friend.

And I waited. And I waited some more.

I began to worry that she might have been more tipsy than I suspected, so I decided to go and check the ladies' toilet. I didn't make it all the way back when I spied her in the beer garden. She and the boring guy who had been chatting with us previously were deeply engaged in a game of tonsil tennis. I was utterly floored and, to be honest, disgusted.

I went out, tapped her on the shoulder and said that I was going home. She made some protests, but I left before I could hear what she had to say.

I didn't hear from her again that night, but the next morning she texted a light-hearted message, hoping I got home safely, telling me she had a shocking headache and probably wouldn't be moving for the rest of the day. I just sent the normal smile emoji back in response.

I can't bring myself to reply. I still feel too angry. How dare she trade me in for some boozer? It's thinking of myself sitting there waiting for her, feeling concerned, while she wasn't giving me a care in the world that really sticks in my craw.

I haven't responded to her yet apart from that. I do love this friend, but I can't see myself going out with her again if that's the way she's going to carry on. Neither can I see us having a conversation about this that won't end badly.

I'm too old for this.

Yours

Pissed off, to be honest

Dear Pissed Off,

You are not too old for karaoke, questionable bars or dancing with men whose birthdays occurred alarmingly recently. You are, however, too old to be left sitting alone in a pub wondering whether your friend has fallen into a toilet cubicle while she is outside conducting an enthusiastic oral examination of a man who appears to have come with the furniture.

The problem is not that she kissed him. She is entitled to flirt, giggle and make decisions that look significantly less enchanting under the hard light of morning. The problem is that she vanished without telling you, left you waiting and worrying, and then sent a breezy hangover bulletin the next day as though the evening had concluded exactly as planned.

That was inconsiderate. You had gone out together. At the very least, she owed you a quick: “I'm heading outside with him. Are you all right getting home?” Friendship does not require a permission slip before tonsil tennis, but it does require basic courtesy.

I would not end a longstanding friendship over one drunken lapse, especially when you clearly love her. But I would not swallow your anger and pretend nothing happened either. Resentment kept under the tongue has a nasty aftertaste.

Say something simple:

“I was really upset that you disappeared without telling me. I was sitting there waiting and worrying about you, and then found you outside with him. I don't care that you kissed someone, but I do care that you left me without a word.”

That keeps the issue where it belongs. Not on the boring man. Not on her sexuality. Not on whether women in their fifties should know better than to behave badly in bars. On consideration.

Her response will tell you far more than the incident itself. If she is mortified and apologises, the friendship probably survives with one useful amendment to the constitution: no disappearing into beer gardens without notifying the other member of the delegation.

If she laughs it off or tells you that you are overreacting, then the problem is larger than one ill-advised snog with a pub fixture.

You are not too old for silly nights. You are simply old enough to expect better manners during them.

With sympathy for the hangover you didn't deserve,
Joely

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Dear Joely is the resident advice column at Slightly Penetrating: candid letters about friendship, sex, relationships and modern social disasters, answered with warmth, dry humour and considerably less judgement than some situations deserve.

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More trouble from the postbag

The Case of the Wandering Toe Four neighbours. Two spas. Forty toes. Only one of them is causing trouble. I Said the Cruel Thing Out Loud at Dinner One dinner party, too much wine, and a truth that should never have arrived with witnesses. Browse every Dear Joely letter

Dear Joely: The Case of the Wandering Toe

Dear Joely,

I am fortunate to live in one of the nicer areas of Sydney with my husband and our two young children. All is as well as can be in those departments.

We are very good friends with our neighbours across the street. They are a couple, about ten years older than us. Every month or so, the four of us get together for drinks and some food. We alternate between our houses as the venue.

We both have spas in our yards and, at the end of these evenings, we usually end up having a tub together, with more drinks and chats. We don’t wear clothes on these occasions. This isn’t for any racy reason. It just came about because none of us normally wears clothes when in our own spa, so we figured: why would we start on these social evenings?

Nothing is made of the nudity, and we all really enjoy chatting together in the warm tub under the stars.

All good so far, but the problem is this: the male neighbour has taken to touching me underwater with his toe.

I don’t mean an accidental touch. I mean he is putting his toe between my legs and looking for encouragement.

This is incredibly awkward for me. If I call it out when it’s happening, that’s the evening — and possibly future get-togethers — finished. Or he could deny it.

If I speak to the female neighbour about it alone — we are very close as friends — she might feel awkward or jealous, or not believe me.

I told my husband, and he seems more amused than anything.

I don’t want to encourage him in any way. I like things, apart from this problem, as they are.

I learned of your page from a different friend and thought — hoped — you might be able to help.

Yours

Unwanted Toe Attention

Dear Unwanted Toe Attention,

What a beautifully civilised arrangement you have created: good friends, warm water, drinks beneath the stars — and one man’s big toe attempting to start a separate social programme.

Let us clear up the only part that appears to be confusing anyone. Being naked in a spa is not an invitation to be touched. Your neighbour knows the difference between an accidental brush of the foot and deliberately placing his toe between your legs while watching to see what happens next.

This is not a rogue limb. He is conducting a small underwater feasibility study:

Will she react?
Will she say anything?
Might the toe be permitted to return?

The answer to the final question must be no.

You do not need to turn the evening into a neighbourhood emergency or suddenly announce, “Whose toe is that, and why is it there?”

Although it would settle the question rather efficiently.

The next time it happens, move away, look directly at him and say quietly:

“Please don’t do that again.”

No nervous laugh. No apology. No long explanation that allows him to pretend you have misunderstood the fascinating migratory habits of his foot.

If he denies it, simply say:

“Good. Then it won’t happen again.”

That is all you need.

I would not begin by speaking privately to his wife. He created the problem, and it should not be handed to the two women to manage between them over coffee. Speaking to her first also gives him the opportunity to deny it before you have ever addressed him directly.

Your husband’s amusement deserves a second conversation too. Tell him plainly that you are not flattered, entertained or secretly enjoying the attention. You feel uncomfortable and sexually intruded upon, and you need him to take that seriously. He does not have to storm across the street with a pool noodle unless that is what you want, but he does need to stop treating it as a saucy neighbourhood anecdote.

You are worried that objecting may spoil the evening or end future gatherings.

But darling, the evenings are already being spoiled. You are sitting in warm, bubbling water wondering whether a toe is about to make another covert border crossing while everyone discusses schools, renovations and interest rates above the surface.

That is no way to relax.

One calm, unmistakable boundary may be enough to return the foot to ordinary civilian life. Should it happen again, I would retire the shared spa evenings altogether. Not because nudity caused the problem, but because one guest has shown that he cannot be trusted with the arrangement.

Warm water, cold drinks and neighbourly nudity can coexist perfectly well.

They simply require all four adults — and all forty toes — to behave themselves.

Yours, with both feet firmly where they belong,

Joely

More dilemmas? Read more letters and replies in the Dear Joely advice column.

Dear Joely: My Friends Stopped Inviting Me Out Since I Got Engaged

Dear Joely,

I stumbled on your page. I hope you can help.

I’m 26. Rather than tell you loads of boring story about how I got where I am, I’ll try and make it as easy as I can.

I’ve just finished my degree in nursing. Apart from all the study and exams, I had a wonderful time. I had lots of friends around me and a fantastic social life.

I met a fantastic guy on one of our great nights out. He and I just got closer and closer, and we’re now engaged and living together. I’m happy with that, but it feels like my friends have left me behind.

I don’t usually get texted now when they’re going out as a group. I find out about it afterwards, and it really hurts. They just say, “Oh, you’re always busy.”

We used to do everything together. There was a really close group. Now it’s like we can talk, but it’s really basic chat. Nobody bothers going into what’s really going on with them — well, with me anyway.

I miss talking properly to my friends, and while I’m happy with my fiancé, I feel really excluded even though I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s starting to affect my relationship with my fiancé a bit because I’m down in the dumps a lot of the time.

Sorry, this is a bit mixed up.

Sad and Left Behind

Dear Sad and Left Behind,

First of all, congratulations on finishing your nursing degree. That is not a small thing. That is a very large thing involving caffeine, panic, shoes that hurt, and possibly a relationship with laminated notes that became too intimate.

And congratulations on the fiancé too. A good one, I hope. One who knows how to make tea, apologise properly, and not say “calm down” unless he has a death wish.

Now to the sore bit.

I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. But I do think something has changed, and everyone is pretending it hasn’t.

Groups are funny creatures. At university, friendship can feel effortless because everyone is in the same stream. Same deadlines, same nights out, same shared exhaustion, same cheap wine, same tiny dramas given Shakespearean importance at 2 a.m.

Then someone graduates. Someone gets engaged. Someone starts shift work. Someone moves in with a partner. Suddenly the stream divides, and people often handle that very badly. Instead of saying, “We miss you, but we don’t know how to fit you in now,” they say, “Oh, you’re always busy.”

That line hurts because it makes their exclusion sound like your fault.

But here is the awkward little truth: they may not be deliberately leaving you out. They may have made a lazy assumption that engaged-you is no longer available in the same way single-student-you was. They may think they’re being considerate. Or they may be avoiding the slightly uncomfortable feeling that the group is changing and nobody knows what to do with that.

The first thing I’d do is stop waiting for the group to magically remember you. Pick one friend — the kindest one, not necessarily the loudest one — and say something plain.

Not dramatic. Not accusatory. Just honest.

Try:

“I know life has changed a bit since I moved in with him, but I really miss you all. I’ve noticed I’m not being included as much, and it’s hurt more than I wanted to admit. I still want to be part of things.”

Then be specific. Suggest a night. Suggest coffee. Suggest drinks after work. Don’t just say, “We should catch up,” because that phrase has sent more friendships to the grave than almost anything else.

Also, make sure you are not accidentally waiting to be invited while giving off the signal that your fiancé is now your whole social life. That happens more easily than people think. Love is wonderful, but it can become a very comfortable little cave, and sometimes our friends stop knocking because they think we’ve moved in permanently with the candles and the throw rugs.

This does not mean your fiancé has done anything wrong. But it is worth being careful not to make him responsible for filling every emotional gap your friends have left. That’s too much pressure on a relationship, especially a young engaged one. He can love you beautifully and still not be a group of girlfriends.

So build both things: your relationship and your friendships. They need different rooms in your life.

And if you do reach out clearly, and they still keep excluding you? Then you will have your answer. Painful, yes, but useful. Some friendships are for a season, and some survive the awkward transition into adult life. The ones worth keeping will make space for the fuller version of you — nurse, fiancée, friend, tired human, all of it.

You haven’t been left behind because you moved forward.

But you may need to turn around, wave your arms a little, and say, “I’m still here, you idiots.”

With sympathy, and a firm vote for one proper girls’ night very soon,

Joely

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