The miles between us (and why they matter)

British friendships are often built on shared moans about the weather, a mutual love of a decent cup of tea, and the unspoken agreement that you never actually say how much you miss someone. But when your best mate moves from Newcastle to Newquay, or your university lot scatter to Cardiff, Glasgow, and Norwich, that stiff upper lip starts to wobble. Long-distance friendships need more than good intentions and the occasional “we must catch up” text that never leads anywhere. They need a plan. And perhaps a silly postcard of a donkey wearing a hat.

Schedule regular calls (and actually keep them)

The British have a talent for turning a simple phone call into a logistical nightmare. “I’ll ring you next week” becomes a month of missed connections and passive-aggressive WhatsApp messages. Instead, treat your call like a dentist appointment: non-negotiable. Pick a fixed time – say, the first Sunday of the month at 7pm. Use a calendar invite. If you’re both busy, a 15-minute catch-up is better than nothing. Avoid the trap of “I’ll call when I have a free hour” because that hour will never come.

• Try a walking call. Both of you go for a stroll around your respective neighbourhoods. It feels less intense than sitting face-to-face, and you can blame poor signal when you need to hang up.
• Use voice notes for the small stuff. A two-minute ramble about a bizarre encounter in Lidl is more bonding than a formal hour-long chat.
• Never cancel without rescheduling. “Sorry, can’t make it” is fine. “Sorry, can’t make it – how about next Tuesday?” is friendship-saving.

Send silly postcards (the dafter the better)

In an age of instant messaging, a physical postcard is a small act of rebellion. It says, “I went to a seaside town, saw a terrifyingly cheerful seagull, and thought of you.” Buy a pack of cheap postcards from a charity shop or a motorway services. Write something ridiculous: a fake weather report (“Rain expected until 2037”), a terrible pun, or a sketch of your friend as a potato. Address it correctly – you don’t want it arriving three weeks later with a red “return to sender” stamp.

The rule: never send a postcard from somewhere glamorous. Send it from Crewe. Send it from a retail park in Basingstoke. That’s where the real British humour lives. And if you can find a card featuring a cat in a bowler hat, even better.

Plan occasional meet-ups (and make them count)

Twice a year is a realistic target for most long-distance friendships. Choose a halfway point – a town with a decent pub and a train station. Avoid the temptation to always meet in London; it’s expensive and exhausting. Instead, pick somewhere like Shrewsbury, York, or a random village with a canal. Book a cheap room or a friend’s spare bed. The key is to commit early. Put the date in the diary six months ahead, then guard it like a territorial goose.

When you meet, don’t spend the whole time discussing how long it’s been. Do something mundane together: go to a supermarket, cook a terrible meal, watch a quiz show and shout at the telly. That’s how you remember why you’re friends. And if you can’t manage a full weekend, a day trip is still a triumph – even if you spend four hours on a replacement bus service.

Use the post for more than cards

A small parcel can be a lifeline. Send a bag of your local crisps, a bizarre souvenir, or a copy of a magazine you both loved as teenagers. Wrap it in newspaper. Include a note that says “saw this and thought of your face.” The British postal system is slow but reliable – think of it as a patience-building exercise. Receiving a parcel that isn’t a bill or a takeaway menu is a genuine joy.

Don’t overdo it. One parcel every few months is plenty. The point is not to spend money, but to show you were thinking of them in the queue at the Post Office. A strong contender: a packet of custard creams that have been slightly crushed in transit. It’s the thought that counts, and the crumbs.

Embrace the mundane and the absurd

Finally, accept that friendship across distance is built on small, silly moments. Send voice notes of your cat snoring. Share a photo of a sign that says “Carpet Warehouse – closing down sale (since 1998)”. Start a ridiculous group chat with a shared in-joke that no one else understands. The British gift for everyday satire means you can find humour in a traffic jam on the M6 or a neighbour’s bizarre garden gnome collection. Use that.

The distance doesn’t shrink, but it becomes less important. You’re still in each other’s lives, one daft postcard, one terrible pun, and one slightly awkward video call at a time. And that’s a very British kind of victory.