“To Friend or Not to Friend?”
“Dad, stop being so stubborn! I’m not asking you to join the Ministry of Silly Walks, just ‘School Chums’—it’s harmless!” For nearly an hour, Oliver had been wrestling with his father’s resistance to digitising his life, hoping to cast him into the vast ocean of social media. But the old man held firm.
“I don’t need it!” His father clutched his brick phone, which had just received its tenth activation code. “You lot swim in your networks like goldfish—leave me be. I’ve enough vices as it is!”
“It’s for company, Dad. You’ll find old classmates, army mates, colleagues…”
“God forbid!” In fright, his father tossed the phone out the window—luckily, it survived the first-floor drop. “Half of them are six feet under! Plenty of time to chat then.”
“But the other half are alive—talk to them! Aside from me and Emily, you only converse with scam callers.”
“And unlike you, they actually listen! Yesterday, I had a three-hour natter with ‘Cathy the Customer Care Rep’ from HMP Holloway. Do you know how hard it is to upsell after lights-out?”
“Just try it—one week. If you hate it, I’ll drop it.”
“Fine. But you’re taking me to the footie in May,” his father bargained.
“I’ve told you, I’ll be in Bristol for work,” Oliver said, already outside, rummaging through the bushes.
“You said you might cancel,” his father called from the window.
“Might. I’ll let you know. Give me five minutes—I’ll sort it. You’ll chat like a normal person.”
His son returned triumphant and booted up the ageing PC.
“Don’t need your blasted world…”
“What was that?”
“Get on with it, you digital spiv.”
The ‘School Chums’ scheme had been his wife’s idea. Her father-in-law had a habit of ringing at all hours for half-hour monologues. Let him bore strangers instead. And maybe he’d stop vanishing—old blokes were forever wandering off for ‘bargain bread’ and turning up counties away.
“You’re talking about my dad,” Oliver reminded her.
“And I’m judging by my own,” she’d retorted. That usually ended it.
“Oliver, some stranger’s friend-requested me!” his father fretted that evening.
“Brilliant! Add him—you’ll have someone new to talk to.”
“I’ve never seen him! How’d he even find me? I haven’t browsed! Who just barges onto a chap’s page uninvited?”
“We filled in your details—school, work, interests. Maybe you shared a classroom…”
“That was a thousand years ago!”
“Then perhaps you butchered mammoths together. Talk to him. Might have common ground. Got to work, Dad.”
“Christ, Oliver, you’ve saddled me with trouble…”
Four days passed before the next call:
“Oliver, fetch me from the station?”
“The station? What are you doing there this late?” His son checked the clock. His wife was right—Dad was becoming That Wandering Old Man.
“Waited forty minutes for this bloody bus. Could’ve walked, but my suitcase wheel snapped.”
“Stay put—I’m coming!”
“Course I’ll stay. Managed to ring my personal rickshaw, didn’t I?”
Oliver found him on a bench, oddly spruce: shaved, pressed, in shiny shoes.
“Where’ve you been?” Oliver heaved the suitcase in.
“Visiting Dave Wilkinson. Lives in Bath,” his father muttered.
“Bath? That’s a five-hour drive! Who’s Dave Wilkinson? Never heard of him.”
Buckling them both in, Oliver drove off.
“Mate from ‘School Chums’… Though friendship’s pending. He supports Arsenal, and you know my thoughts on that circus…”
“Hold on,” Oliver slowed over a speed bump. “You just met and went straight to his house?”
“Naturally! I don’t add just anybody. Had to suss him out—chat, look him in the eye, learn his politics.”
“Dad, online friends don’t require in-person vetting. That’s the joy of it.”
“Do they make babies remotely these days?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything, Oliver! I won’t bond with strangers. My circle’s vetted. Full stop.”
“Alright, simmer down!” Oliver backed off, lest his questions scare him back into hermitage. “But warn me next time you gallivant off. I ought to know where to dredge the rivers.”
“Aye-aye!” His father mock-saluted, then requested a detour for a smartphone—”one that does the internet.”
The next call came on a Saturday mid-business trip:
“Off to Newcastle. Back Monday.”
“Dad, my signal’s patchy. Did you say Newcastle?”
“Your signal’s fine. Yes, Newcastle. New mate there—two, actually. Turns out we served in the same regiment, different years. Don’t fret—I’ll cab it from the airport. Mastered the app.”
“Dad, you’re mad! Stay put! I’ll take you to the match soon—no flying!” Oliver realised he’d opened Pandora’s box and now needed to slam it shut.
“Sorry, Oliver—boarding now. Can’t hear. See you at the footie!”
***
Days later, Oliver checked his father’s profile. Five friends already. One local—reassuring. But “Linda Shackleton” of the Orkney Islands sent a chill down his spine.
Returning home, he plotted to hide Dad’s passport—too late. The man had already bolted to Cornwall. They next met two weeks on. His father was tanned, wearing a hand-stitched shirt and—most alarming—a tattoo of his football club’s crest.
“Lindy from Leeds did it. Grand lass. Met in ‘School Chums’—saber-saw sculpting group. Visiting Saturday with her husband. We’re hitting the match.”
“Who’s Lindy? What match? You promised me!”
“Bring the missus, then! Though she still hasn’t accepted my friend request…”
“I can’t—Bristol—”
“Then why moan? Speaking of, I’m flying there Monday. New pal. Fancy a coffee and marzipan in town? We could tour the docks after.”
His father was unrecognisable—slang in his speech, a gleam in his eye.
“I’m working, not ‘hanging out.’ And I don’t know your motley crew—”
“Neither do I. Might not even click. Met one bloke last week—proper Ministry of Silly Walks material. Their ringleader, I reckon. Oh, and you’ve five Bristol mates yourself.”
“Seriously?”
Oliver scanned his 500 ‘friends,’ recalling only seven he’d seen in a decade. Most were added thoughtlessly, profiles unread.
“How are you funding these jaunts?”
“Sold the allotment.”
“The allotment? You loved it there!”
“You loved dumping me there weekends to pick berries. I was bored stiff. If not for ‘Cathy the Con’s’ loan scams, I’d have started sprouting fruit myself. Drop me at her prison, will you? They shaved her sentence for snitching. Ought to meet once—for old times’ sake.”
Dazed, Oliver agreed.
That evening, he scrolled his own friends list, wondering, *Who are these people?* Spotting a dozen new requests, he hesitated. Instead, he messaged an old neighbour unseen in fifteen years:
“Fancy a barbecue? Catch up?”
“Busy now. I’ll ping you,” came the reply.
*So much for childhood friends*, Oliver thought.
Then, impulsively, he invited a Bristol stranger for coffee. The man accepted instantly.
Thrilled, Oliver called his father.
“See? I told you—meet in person! You’re learning!”
“Suppose so.”
“Oh—help me renew my passport, will you?”
“What for?”
“Some Jack Durian from Johannesburg friended me. Fancy seeing what he’s about.”
“Dad! That’s spam!”
“Oliver, I won’t judge a man unchecked.”
