**To Friend or Not to Friend?**
“Dad, stop being such a mardy git! I’m not asking you to sign up for the Ministry of Clowns—it’s just *Schoolmates*, a social network,” Leo had spent the last forty minutes trying to digitise his father’s identity, nudging him into the endless sea of online connections. The old man, however, was resistant.
“I don’t need it!” His father clutched his ancient Nokia, the tenth activation code now flashing on its tiny screen. “You lot flail about in your digital ponds like startled goldfish—leave me out of it. I’ve got enough bad habits without adding another.”
“It’s for *connecting*, Dad. You’ll find old classmates, coworkers, army mates—”
“God forbid!” His father, panicked, tossed the phone out the window. Luckily, it didn’t smash—they were on the ground floor. “Half of them are pushing up daisies by now! I’ll have plenty of time to catch up later.”
“The other half are still kicking. Chat with *them*. Right now, it’s just me and Tanya—and the odd scammer—who’ll talk to you.”
“And unlike you lot, those scammers *listen*! Yesterday, I spent three hours with ‘Katie’—some ‘manager’ from HM Prison. Did you know how hard it is to offer ‘extra services’ after lights-out?”
“Just try it. One week. If you hate it, I’ll drop it.”
“Fine. But *you’re* coming to the football with me in May,” his father bargained.
“I already said I’ll be in Newcastle for work that weekend,” Leo muttered, already outside, rummaging through the bushes.
“You said *maybe* you wouldn’t go,” his father called from the window.
“*Maybe* isn’t *no*. Give me five minutes—I’ll set it up. You’ll finally talk to people like a normal bloke.”
Back inside, Leo settled at the ancient PC while his father grumbled,
“Don’t need your bloody ‘world’…”
“What was that?”
“Just get on with it, you digital pusher.”
The *Schoolmates* idea had been pushed by Leo’s wife, tired of her father-in-law ringing at awkward hours for half-hour rambles. *First*, let him bore someone else. *Second*, maybe he’d stop vanishing—popping out for discount bread, only to be found three counties over by search teams.
“You’re talking about *my* dad,” Leo reminded her.
“And I’m judging by my own,” she shot back.
The argument usually died there.
“Leo, some strange bloke’s trying to add me!” his father called that evening, alarmed.
“That’s *great*! Accept him—chat!”
“Leo, I’ve never seen this mug in my life! How’d he even *find* me? I haven’t ‘walked’ your bloody networks. Who just *wanders* onto someone’s page uninvited?”
“We filled in your details—school, work, interests. Maybe you knew him?”
“That was a *thousand* years ago!”
“Then maybe you skinned mammoths together. Just *talk*. Might have things in common. Gotta go, Dad.”
“Ugh, Leo—you’ve saddled me with a right headache…”
Four days passed before the next call:
“Leo, pick me up from the station.”
“The *station*? What’re you doing there this late?” Leo checked his watch. His wife was right—Dad was turning into one of those wandering old blokes.
“Bloody bus is forty minutes late. Could’ve walked, but my suitcase wheel busted.”
“Stay put—I’m coming!”
“Course I’m staying—I’ve got my personal chauffeur in his Chinese jalopy.”
At the station, Leo found his father on a bench—unusually sharp: shaved, pressed, new shoes.
“Where’ve you been?” Leo asked, loading the suitcase.
“Visiting Dave Jenkins. Lives in Bristol now,” his father muttered.
“*Bristol*? That’s five hours away! Who the hell’s Dave Jenkins?”
Leo buckled up, then his father’s, and drove off.
“Mate from *Schoolmates*…” His father gazed out the window, deep in thought. “Though ‘mate’s’ pushing it. He’s a *Chelsea* fan—and you know how I feel about that lot…”
“Hold on.” Leo slowed over a speed bump. “You met him *once* and went all the way there?”
“*Obviously*!” his father scoffed. “I don’t add just *anyone*. Needed to see the whites of his eyes—hear his voice, suss his politics.”
“Dad, online friends don’t *require* that. That’s *the point*.”
“And do folks make kids remotely these days, then?”
“What’s *that* got to do with—?”
“*Everything*, Leo! I only befriend people I’ve met. End of.”
“Alright, calm down!” Leo knew pushing might scare him back into isolation. “But *warn* me next time. I’d like to know where to find your body.”
“Message received!” His father mock-saluted, then asked Leo to buy him a smartphone.
The next call came on a Saturday, mid-business trip:
“Off to Leeds. Back Monday.”
“Dad—signal’s dodgy. Did you say *Leeds*?”
“Signal’s fine. *Leeds.* Made two new mates—turns out we served in the same battalion, different years. Don’t worry—I’ll grab a cab. Learned to use apps now.”
“Dad, you’re *mad*! Stay put! I’ll be back soon—we’ll go to your match. No more gallivanting!” Leo realised he’d opened Pandora’s box.
“Sorry, Leo—bad signal. Boarding now. See you at the match!”
***
Days later, Leo checked his father’s profile. Five friends now. One local—reassuring. But a certain “Irene Shackleton” lived *in bloody Aberdeen*. A chill ran down Leo’s spine.
He planned to hide Dad’s passport but was too late—the man had already scarpered to Brighton. They only crossed paths two weeks later. His father was tanned, wearing a weird hand-stitched shirt and—worst of all—a tattoo of his football club’s crest.
“Nancy from Portsmouth did it. Lovely lass. Met in a *Schoolmates* group for ‘extreme whittling.’ Coming down Saturday with her husband. We’re hitting the match.”
“*Nancy*? *What match*? Dad, you were going with *me*!”
“So come *with* us! Bring the wife. Though I sent her a request three weeks back—still no reply.”
“I *can’t*—Newcastle—”
“Then why nag? Oh, and I’m flying there Monday—met a lad from there. Fancy meeting up? We’ll grab a coffee, maybe see the castle.”
His father was *unrecognisable*. New slang, a gleam in his eye.
“I’m there for *work*, not ‘hanging out.’ And I don’t know *any* of these people—”
“*Neither do I*! Might not even *like* them. Met one bloke—turns out he *works* at the Ministry of Clowns. *Boss*, no less! Oh, and you’ve got *five* friends in Newcastle.”
“*Seriously*?”
Leo struggled to recall *who*. Out of 500 “friends,” he could name *seven* he’d actually seen in a decade. Most were added without a second thought.
“Where’s the money for all this coming from?”
“Sold the allotment.”
“Th-the *allotment*?!” Leo’s vision blurred. “You *loved* it there!”
“*You* loved *dragging* me there every weekend to pick berries while I rotted of boredom. If not for ‘Katie the Loan Shark,’ I’d have started sprouting *myself*. Drop me at her prison, will you? They cut her sentence for snitching. Fancy a visit before she’s out—for old times’ sake.”
Leo digested this slowly but couldn’t refuse.
That evening, scrolling his own “friends” list, he wondered, *Who ARE these people?* Spotting a dozen new requests, he hesitated—then messaged an old childhood neighbour he hadn’t seen in fifteen years:
*”Fancy a meet? Barbecue, catch up?”*
*”Maybe in a few weeks,”* came the reply. *”I’ll text you.”*
*”Sure,”* Leo typed, thinking, *Yeah. ‘Childhood friend.’*
Then he spotted some Newcastle bloke—*no* idea who—and impulsively invited him for coffee on Monday.
*”Done!”* came the instant reply.
Thrill buzzing, Leo rang his father.
“See? *TAnd as Leo hung up, he realised—perhaps for the first time—that his father had finally found the one thing he’d been missing all along: a world eager to listen.
