“To Friend or Not to Friend?”
“Dad, stop being so difficult! I’m not asking you to sign up for the Ministry of Silly Walks—just ‘Schoolmates,’ alright?” For forty minutes, Oliver had been hopelessly trying to digitise his father’s identity and release him into the vast ocean of social media. But the man resisted.
“I don’t need it!” His dad hid his old button phone, which had just received its tenth activation code. “You lot can flounder about in your digital nonsense—leave me out of it. I’ve got enough bad habits already!”
“It’s for keeping in touch, Dad. You’ll find your old schoolmates, coworkers, army pals…”
“God forbid!” His father, alarmed, chucked the phone out the window—luckily, they were on the ground floor. “Half of them are probably six feet under! Plenty of time to chat later.”
“The other half are alive. Talk to them! All you do now is gossip with me, Emily, and those scam callers.”
“And unlike you, they actually listen! Yesterday, I had a three-hour chat with ‘Katie from HMP Seven’—did you know how hard it is for them to upsell services after lights-out?”
“Just try it for a week. If you hate it, I’ll drop it.”
“Fine. But only if you come to the football match with me in May,” his dad bargained.
“I told you, I’ll be in Brighton for work!” Oliver was already outside, rummaging through the bushes.
“You said maybe.” His dad leaned out the window.
“I’ll let you know. Just give me five minutes—you’ll be a proper digital citizen in no time.”
Retrieving the phone, Oliver settled at the dusty old PC.
“Don’t need your fancy global village…”
“What was that?”
“Just get on with it, you tech pusher.”
Oliver’s wife, Emily, had pushed the “Schoolmates” idea for ages. Her father-in-law had a habit of calling at the worst times for half-hour monologues. Let him bore strangers instead. Plus, maybe he’d wander less. These old blokes were always off chasing sunsets—pop out for discount bread and vanish for days.
“You’re talking about *my* dad,” Oliver reminded her.
“I’m speaking from experience,” she’d counter. That usually ended the debate.
“Oliver, some stranger just friend-requested me!” his dad called that evening, panicked.
“That’s the point! Add him—you’ll have someone new to talk to.”
“I’ve never seen him before! How’d he even find me? The cheek, barging into my profile uninvited!”
“We filled in your details—school, work, interests. Maybe you were classmates…”
“That was a thousand years ago!”
“Fine, maybe you hunted mammoths together. Just chat. You might hit it off. I’ve got work, Dad.”
“Oliver, you’ve landed me in right bother…”
The next call came four days later:
“Can you pick me up from the station?”
“The *station*? What are you doing there this late?” Oliver checked the clock. Emily was right—his dad was turning into some nomad pensioner.
“Been waiting 40 minutes for this bloody bus. My suitcase wheel broke. Could’ve walked, but…”
“Stay put, I’m coming!”
“Wouldn’t dream of leaving—just scored a personal chauffeur in a Chinese tin can.”
Oliver found him on a bench, oddly groomed: shaved, pressed shirt, new shoes.
“Where’ve you been?” Oliver heaved the suitcase into the boot.
“Visiting Dave Wilkins. Lives in Norwich,” his dad muttered.
“*Norwich*? That’s a five-hour drive! Who’s Dave Wilkins?”
As Oliver buckled them in, his dad stared out the window. “A mate. From ‘Schoolmates.’ Though friendship’s pending—he supports Arsenal, and you know how I feel about that lot…”
“Hold on.” Oliver slowed at a speed bump. “You *just* met him and *drove* there?”
“Obviously!” His dad looked baffled. “I don’t add just anyone. Had to see him properly—talk face-to-face, suss him out, learn his politics…”
“Dad, online friends don’t require background checks. That’s the whole *point*.”
“Oh? Do people make kids remotely now too?”
“What’s *that* got to do with it?”
“Everything, Oliver! I don’t trust strangers. My circle’s vetted. Full stop.”
“Alright, calm down!” Oliver backed off, not wanting to scare him back into hermit mode. “But *warn* me next time you vanish. I need to know where to send search parties.”
“Roger that!” His dad mock-saluted, then asked to detour for a smartphone. “One that can actually go online.”
The next call came on a Saturday during Oliver’s work trip:
“Off to Cardiff. Back Monday.”
“Dad, the signal’s patchy—did you say *Cardiff*?”
“Signal’s fine. Flying there. Two new mates—same battalion, different years. I’ll Uber from the airport; figured out the app.”
“Have you lost it? Stay home! We’ll go to your match when I’m back.” Oliver realised he’d opened this Pandora’s box—now he had to shut it.
“Sorry, Oliver, bad signal—we’re boarding. See you at the match!”
Days later, Oliver checked his dad’s profile: five friends. One local (promising), but a certain “Lizzie Thornton” lived in bloody *Inverness*. A chill ran down his spine.
He planned to hide Dad’s passport post-trip, but the man had already scarpered to Cornwall. They next met two weeks later. His dad was tanned, wore a handmade Hawaiian shirt, and—most alarming—sported a tattoo of his football club.
“Liz from Bristol did it. Good lass. Met in the ‘Schoolmates’ chainsaw art group. She and her husband are visiting Saturday. We’re hitting the match.”
“What Liz? What match? You promised *me*!”
“Come with us! Bring Emily. We’re friends too—though she’s ignored my request for weeks.”
“I can’t—I’ve got Brighton—”
“Then why fuss? I’m flying there Monday—new pal there. We’ll grab coffee, maybe tour the piers. Join us!”
His dad was *unrecognisable*—slang in his speech, a twinkle in his eye.
“I’m *working* there, not sightseeing! And I don’t know your circus of friends!”
“Neither do I. Might not even like ’em. Met one bloke—turns out he *works* at the Ministry of Silly Walks. Boss, probably. Oh, and five of your ‘friends’ are from Brighton.”
“Seriously?”
Oliver tried recalling which of his 500 acquaintances lived there. He could only name seven he’d actually *seen* in a decade. Most adds were mindless clicks.
“How’re you affording these trips?” he asked.
“Sold the allotment.”
“The *allotment*?” Oliver’s vision swam. “You loved that place!”
“You loved *dumping* me there every weekend to pick berries. I was *dying* of boredom. If not for ‘Katie from HMP Seven’s’ loan offers, I’d have started fruiting myself. Drop me at her work later? She got early release for snitching. Want to meet her before she’s out—won’t stay pals, but it’s polite.”
Oliver digested this over dinner. That night, scrolling his own “friends” list, he wondered, *Who ARE these people?*
Spotting a dozen new requests, he spent an hour vetting profiles, then messaged an old neighbour he hadn’t seen in 15 years:
“Fancy a BBQ? Catch up?”
“Busy now—I’ll text,” came the reply.
“Sure,” Oliver wrote, thinking, *Some childhood friend.*
Then he spotted a Brighton bloke he’d never met. On impulse, he invited him for coffee that Monday.
“Done!” the stranger instantly replied.
Pumped from the gamble, Oliver called his dad.
“Told you! You kept whinging about ‘online only.’ Now *you* get it!”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway… Help me get a passport?”
“*WHY*?” Another chill.
“Some Jack Durian from South Africa added me. Fancy meeting the chap.”
“Dad, that’s a *scam*!”
“Oliver, I won’t judge till I’ve checked myself. Manners matter.”
