Bumble BFF and stalking new work friends: Making individual friends in a couples' world

When you relocate for a partner, you often leave friends behind, gaining one type of love but losing another. How do we find support and community in the age of digital friendship and IRL isolation?

I’ve always felt very lucky with my friends. Throughout all of my birthdays, break-ups, promotions and redundancies, I’ve reliably had a gang of good pals ready to hit the pub at a moment’s notice. The hitch is, that moment’s notice gets somewhat prolonged in your thirties ‒ ‘at three months’ notice’ might be more precise. (*Me, choking on own tears*: ‘No guys, don’t worry, I’ll be totally fine ’til I see you in March.’) That doesn’t mean my friends aren’t there for me: they just might be at the end of a five-minute-long WhatsApp voice note, sent from Canada or the Cotswolds, in a series of Instagram heart-eyes emojis or a funny video of a hedgehog. But the immediate, IRL friend ‒ the one you can hit on a Friday to see if they want a glass of wine and a whinge to round off the week ‒ these days, they’re harder to come by.

The problem with how we live now (and my choice of living in a rather international city) is that people scatter. You might make really great, close-knit friends at school, then leave for university and have to start again from scratch. You might then move cities for a job, scrambling to accept every drinks invitation in a bid to scrape together some like-minded, twentysomething mates. As you cross into your late twenties and early thirties, many of the good friends you once relied on for last-minute plans couple up and move out into more affordable areas than the city you met in. Or perhaps you yourself move, in my case, leaving the southern end of a big city containing a decade’s worth of important friends for the northern end, where you’ve made precisely none. It’s a dilemma.

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I’ll say it: it’s also a couples’ world. Expectations are that we’ll pair off, Noah’s Ark style, and retreat to our corners, perhaps pop out some kids or get an excellent dog, leaving friends as something we check in with every quarter, or twice a year. All the aspirational marketing stuff for my age group centres around taking your 2.4 on woodland walks in Boden wellies, not renting a country cabin for six and demolishing three cases of wine. But why is that the only way? I wish it was more common to aspire to live near your friends, to spend time with them; to base community around people who enrich you. (Obviously, pesky things like family ties and house prices get in the way to some degree.) Those who hold out and stay single have more flexibility, more freedom ‒ or so it seems to me. They take last-minute trips together, spend traditionally family-focused holidays together, schedule last-minute drinks and theatre trips. Or maybe it’s just as isolated and I’m misremembering things.

This is no reflection on my enduring, always-on-the-end-of-a-WhatsApp old friends, but I need some new, local ones. I live in a sweet little community with nice walks, indie cinemas, tiny cocktail bars and highly rated restaurants, but I’ve only really enjoyed them with G. Three months after moving here, I had a full meltdown at the sight of two women sitting at a pavement table, cackling over a glass of one. The ground dropped out from under me. How did I end up here? Where was my wine buddy? When I thought about it, I didn’t have one friend who wouldn’t have to embark on a 50-minute voyage across town, minimum (practically a Herculean quest in London terms) to get anywhere near my neighbourhood ‒ and even then they’d be foiled by the practically mythical W3 bus. Even those as close as that seemed permanently tied up with their own relationships and far-scattered friends.

I know what you’re thinking: stop lurking near strangers and make an effort to find some new pals! But I have tried. I re-downloaded Bumble, which happens to be the app I met G on, to try Bumble BFF. Selecting this option, you can find new people in your area by age and location, putting the sort of things you want from a friendship on your profile. (Expect a lot of 37 year old women wanting dog walks with coffees, cinema trips and travel.) But it’s a tricky format ‒ trying to be less phone-obsessed, I have my notifications switched off so often miss a match, not replying quickly enough to gain momentum. Or I’ll match with someone just as I jet off on a work trip, we’ll faff about with slow replies and the whole thing will fizzle. I never get the feeling anyone on there is serious about making plans; they just want to be the sort of person who makes new London friends in adulthood. Bumble BFF is the New Year’s resolution of apps, always hopeful, never quite materialising. For a former serial app dater like me, the whole thing feels tinged with PTSD.

I tried going on the website MeetUp, which posts group hangouts and activities in your area. I found a nice ‘Ladies of North London’ group, and went along to one drink. They were nice, but there wasn’t really a shared interest to get the chat going (other than gnawing loneliness I suppose, LOL). Plus they met up on the weeknight when I rehearse with a choir, so it was ultimately doomed.

In the end, I suspect ‘36 and in a relationship’ may just be a barren environment for growing new friendships. You’ve got a certain amount of commitments, thanks to your family and your partner’s, and ‘couple friends’ from either end. Add to that my frequent travel for work, and I’m a huge pain to make plans with. I’ve tried engineering friendships from work acquaintances and other freelancers with similar lifestyles, and though all are lovely, we’re just such a flighty bunch. I can’t count the number of times I’ve done a happy dance at making a new friend shortly before finding out they’re literally moving to a new continent (I try not to take it personally).

What I have now is individual friends. Friends who I meet up with occasionally, when they’re in town. Friends I plan weekends away around. Friends in several UK counties. But here in London? Maybe the only answer is sitting outside Waitrose with a sign that says ‘Will share wine & meal deal 4 friendship’.

At present, sad to say, I get my main ‘girls hanging out’ fix from podcasts. There are so many gorgeous podcasts where two genuinely good mates sit and chat through some inane topic or other; I’ve spent many a winter walk warming myself on their snorting laughter and audible intimacy. I don’t even have to love the subject of the pod; it’s the hosts’ rapport I’m basking in. I feel the absence of that easy company so, so keenly.

You can’t begrudge your good friends moving onwards and upwards, going to where they want to be in the world ‒ especially when you’ve done exactly the same. But it nevertheless feels exhausting to be managing three decades’ worth of friendships at different ranges, often prioritising those where you see each other, physically, the least. But with anyone new, a proximity friend, you’re least likely to have shared experiences and common ground. And who’s to say one of you won’t move in six months’ time? I can see why most cohabiting huns just end up staying home.

I’m happy for anyone who’s satisfied with their bubble, but I’m not someone who can survive on romantic relationships alone. I’m a pack animal. I crave in-jokes and shared silliness and yelling at twists in The Traitors through a mouthful of Mini Cheddars. I want to go and see Barbie for the third time and then dissect its wardrobe choices over a cocktail. I want to book £35 singer-songwriter gigs and text beforehand to see what we’re wearing. Is this stuff girl (, gay, and they) specific? No. Could I do it with my partner? Yes. Do I crave doing it with a purely platonic friend? Absolutely.

Maybe the siloed nature of our families-and-couples-first society will end up swinging back in the direction of friendship. I read a story the other day about a group of friends who’ve bought tiny houses by a river in Texas so they can retire together in their own ‘tiny town’ (codenamed Exit Strategy, which I thoroughly enjoyed). Maybe there’s hope, still, for my little friend-led community of dreams.

Three podcasts for a contact high of friendship:

Should I Delete That? Emily Clarkson (Jeremy’s daughter) and Alex Light (one of my favourite body-positivity influencers) ramble about everything from fertility to sobriety, but with much more giggling than that implies. There’s also just a weekly check-in about their ‘good’ ‘bad’ and ‘awkward’ moments of the week. You have to listen to a few to get into the format and some recurrent jokes, but you can tell it’s a riot to record.

Sentimental Garbage I know, I gave this one a shout-out last week ‒ but it absolutely nails this aspect, too. Caroline O’Donoghue invites her best pals on to talk about chick flicks, cult teenage-girl albums and concepts from baking to girlbossing. The absolute best episodes are the mini-series on Sex and the City, co-hosted by Dolly Alderton. Caroline and Dolly congratulating each other on their profound takes on SATC will never fail to crack me up.

Las Culturistas Gorgeous American comedians Bowen Yang (from SNL) and Matt Rogers have quickfire BFF energy that bursts through your headphones. They love a diva, a pop girly, a musical and all things pop culture. They have excellent guests and burst into song in a way I aspire to in conversation. The highlight is ‘I Don’t Think So Honey’, a regular slot where each gets a 60-second rant about something they’d absolutely had it with. Here’s Matt’s wise words on the Titan submersible.