The last touch

A parting gift from friends who had become like family, these jam-filled cupcakes remind Sam Woulidge of the trans-continental bond that will last forever

Seb and Jackson first saw one another Sa at Sibongile's coffee and hot chocolate stand at Davies Pool in Onrus, and instantly became friends. I think they were drawn together because, in addition to both being six-year-old boys who loved their bikes and their dogs, they also didn't need to explain anything to each other or answer complicated questions: like why neither of them looked like their parents, why Jackson had two mothers and no father, what being adopted felt like, and why it wasn't okay for strangers to touch their hair. Ever.

For three years' worth of weekends, they cycled around the seaside Overberg village, held dance-offs, compiled playlists, played Monopoly, built Lego, swam in the sea, ate British bacon butties for breakfast and competed for the "last touch" every single time they said goodbye.

I knew that Jackson's mothers, Carol and Jo, were kindred spirits when I texted them after a playdate at our home to say that, should Jackson arrive home with some dodgy dance moves and singing "I'm just a sweet transvestite", they should know it was our slightly wild friend Jocelyn who had thought it appropriate choreography for six-year-olds. "So do we," was their response.