Dear the Northern Division,
It is hard to believe that it's been five years. In some ways it seems like the proverbial yesterday; in other ways I refuse to believe that it's only been five years (surely those dubious nightclubs in the Midlands were at least a decade ago). Everything that has happened in between, everywhere we have been, the thousands of photos we have taken (and by 'we' I mean 'you' and not 'me'), the songs we've sung, the clothes we've worn, not to mention all the questionably coloured cocktails which we've drunk. How could that possibly be summed up in a couple of hundred words?
Because that was what it was always about. It may have been a boy named Griffin who started the story but he quickly became part of the sideshow. Which was, I suppose, what marked us out and why I'm writing this letter to you all now and not simply trying to put names to the faces which peer back at me from a photo album as I do to many who shared that bit of the journey but who have melted now away.
Deck shoes. Riccardi and coke. John Barrowman. Fountains. The Evil Eye. Stage doors. David Tennant. 'Stargirl'. Eurovision. Girl Bands. Roadtrips. Bloody Bristol. The Bedford. JCS. Paolo. Camping. Banners. Dressing up. Never dressing down. Bouncing. New Years. Birthdays. Crazy golf. Puddings. Good grammar. 'Semi Charmed Life'. Bingo Films. Cocktails. Wine.
Of other things, the words slip through my fingers. I do not even know where to begin as to what our fifth year has already brought, reducing our team photo forever more by one. It has confirmed, however, how proud I am of having shared the last few years with you all. We've done incredible things together. Often crazy things. But incredible too.
I would not have missed it for anything.