Once upon a time there were two little girls.

One was growing up in the majesty of Canada. The other in a small NSW country town, that didn’t rate any more than a speck of dirt in the corner of an old handkerchief.

Both played the cello. But didn’t know it. Both skied. But didn’t know it. Both had interesting mums. But didn’t know it. Both were avid readers. But didn’t know it. Both could cook. Boy could they cook. But didn’t know it.

One day, some 20 years ago, they found themselves in Tasmania, a long way from their interesting mothers. Their cellos were left behind, with their girlhood and their skis.

The first they knew of each other was on account of skiing.

They couldn’t ski any more. Not for want of desire, but both, at only 33 and 37, had discovered they had dodgy knees. And so a friendship started.

They became us. Who we are now.

As our friendship grew we learned more similarities. We both married passionate/obstinate men, in July 1992. And, boy did we know it. We both got louder. And everyone knew it. We both gave birth to sons, a year apart named Harrison and Harry.

We both made homes on this strange piece of land that often feels like no more than a speck of geography, and, as our boys got taller our friendship grew.

It’s been a week full of our friendship.

On Saturday night we were two little girls. Okay, possibly two tiddly older girls, sitting side by side on an ottoman watching the television.

We’d already consumed a bottle of very fine Tasmanian sparkling. We were in our smartest track pants and barefoot.

Why not? she said. Didn’t we know it.

There we sat, a pair of couture-challenged Republicans commenting on the wedding of another Harry.

How did this happen? It’s always been personal with us.

Later that week, in the empty halls of our old family home, Bourke Street, I cried with my friend. I needed to sob, because we are about to put our family home of 25 years on the market.

Our downsizing experiment has been a huge success. We are now ready to sell.

That is, we can never go back.

I wanted to go back; I wanted to go back to those days of a crowded house, seemingly always lurching between joy and tragedy, growing our three children and our Tasmanian dream.

“I didn’t want it to end”, I said, while I sobbed into her warm shoulder.

But over it is. Over are the tiger snake summers and wood smoke winters. Over is our magnificent view of a sparkling river, a tiny city backed by Arthur, Barrow and Ben Lomond and big sky.

In its place a smarter design, sweet neighbours and an inner city courtyard filled with gardenias, hydrangeas and Japanese maples and a small herb and vegetable patch.

We remembered so many occasions in those now-empty rooms.

There were ghosts of birthdays, New Years, drunken, long table dinners in our living room, footy grand finals, shared wedding anniversaries, our children everywhere. Even the laundry door stands to our solidarity with our sons’ heights from ages 3 to 20 etched into the architraves. And the sprawling downstairs that’s witnessed our boys’ gift for throwing secret parties and other stuff we’ll never know.

Truth is, we’re living the dream.

“Have you written about it?” she said.