**To Friend or Not to Friend?**
“Dad, why are you being so stubborn? I’m not asking you to sign up at the Ministry of Silly Walks—just ‘Schoolchums’!” For forty minutes, Oliver had been trying to digitise his father’s identity, to release him like a pixelated minnow into the boundless ocean of social media. But the old man resisted.
“I don’t need any of it!” His father clutched his brick phone, already receiving its tenth activation code. “You lot flounder about in your networks like herrings—leave me out of it. I’ve got enough vices as it is. Why add another?”
“It’s for talking, Dad. You’ll find old classmates, army mates, work colleagues…”
“Heaven forbid!” His father, horrified, flung the phone out the window. Thankfully, it didn’t break—they lived on the ground floor. “Half of them are six feet under! I’ll have plenty of time to chat with them later.”
“But the other half are still alive. Talk to them. Right now, besides me and Emily, you only chat with phone scammers.”
“And unlike you, they actually listen! Yesterday, I had a three-hour natter with ‘Catherine’ from Correctional Facility Number Seven. Do you have any idea how hard it is for them to offer ‘additional services’ after lights-out?”
“Just try it for a week. I promise, if you hate it, I’ll drop it.”
“Fine. But in May, you’re coming to the football with me,” his father bargained.
“I already told you—I’ll be in Brighton for work.” Oliver was outside now, fishing through the bushes for the phone.
“You said you might not go,” his father called from the window.
“Might not. I’ll let you know. Just give me five minutes—I’ll sort it all out. You’ll be chatting with the world like a normal person.”
Oliver returned with the phone and settled at the ancient computer.
“Who needs this world of yours anyway…”
“Did you say something?”
“Just get on with it, you digital pusher.”
The idea for ‘Schoolchums’ had long been championed by Oliver’s wife, weary of her father-in-law’s ill-timed calls and half-hour rambles. First, let him bore someone else with his tired tales. Second, maybe he’d venture out less. These old boys were always wandering off—go for discount bread, and next thing, you’re combing the county with search dogs.
“You *are* talking about *my* father,” Oliver reminded her.
“Well, I speak from experience,” she quipped.
The argument usually ended there.
That evening, his father called, alarmed. “Oliver, some unidentified bloke wants to be friends!”
“That’s brilliant! Add him—you’ll have someone new to talk to.”
“Oliver, I’ve never seen this mug in my life. How’d he even find me? I haven’t so much as peeked at this network. What kind of cheek is it, barging onto a stranger’s page like this?”
“We filled in your details—school, work, army service, interests. Maybe you were in the same class…”
“Oliver, that was a thousand years ago!”
“Then maybe you skinned a mammoth together. Just talk to him. You might find common ground. Right, Dad, I’ve got work.”
“Christ, Oliver, you’ve landed me in real bother…”
The next call came four days later:
“Oliver, can you fetch me from the station?”
“The *station*? What are you doing there this late?” Oliver checked his clock. His wife was right—his father was turning into one of those wandering old codgers.
“Been waiting forty minutes for this blasted bus. Should’ve walked, but my suitcase wheel broke.”
“Stay put—I’ll be there soon!”
“Course I’ll stay. I’ve finally got myself a personal chauffeur in a Chinese jalopy.”
Oliver found him on a bench outside the station, uncharacteristically tidy—shaved, pressed, in new shoes.
“Where’ve you been?” Oliver asked, loading the suitcase.
“Visiting Dave Whitcombe. He lives in York,” his father muttered wearily.
“*York*? That’s five hours away! And who’s Dave Whitcombe? Never heard of him.”
Oliver buckled his seatbelt, then his father’s, and pulled away.
“A mate. From your ‘Schoolchums’…” His father gazed out the window, deep in thought. “Though, mind you, the friendship’s on shaky ground. He supports Chelsea, and you know how I feel about that lot…”
“Wait—” Oliver slowed over a speed bump. “You just met, and you *went to York* to see him?”
“Naturally!” His father frowned. “I don’t add just anybody. Had to suss him out—talk face-to-face, look him in the eye, learn what makes him tick, who he votes for.”
“Dad, online friends don’t require *all* that. You can figure it out remotely. That’s the beauty of it.”
“And do people make babies remotely these days too?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“*Everything*, Oliver! I don’t befriend strangers. My circle’s vetted. Full stop.”
“Alright, alright, calm down!” Oliver realised pressing further might scare him back into seclusion. “But next time, *warn* me if you’re gallivanting off. I ought to know where to find you.”
“Aye-aye, Captain!” His father saluted, then asked Oliver to stop for a new smartphone—”one with the internet.”
The next call came on a Saturday, mid-business trip:
“Off to Newcastle. Back Monday.”
“Dad, the signal’s patchy. Did you say *Newcastle*?”
“Your signal’s fine. Yes, Newcastle. Made two new friends there. Turns out we served in the same battalion—different years, mind. Don’t fret—I’ll grab a taxi from the airport. Learned to use the app and all.”
“Dad, have you gone mad? Stay put! I’ll be back soon, and we’ll go to your football match. No gallivanting!” Oliver grimaced—he’d opened Pandora’s box and now needed to slam it shut.
“Sorry, Oliver—bad signal. We’re taxiing. See you at the match!”
***
Days later, Oliver checked his father’s ‘Schoolchums’. Five friends now. He skimmed their profiles—one bloke was local (heartening), but a certain *Margaret Hargreaves* lived clear up in Inverness. A chill ran down Oliver’s spine.
Returning home, he planned to hide his father’s passport—but the old man had already scarpered to Cornwall. They next crossed paths two weeks later. His father was tanned, wearing a peculiar handmade shirt and—most alarming—a tattoo of his football club’s crest.
“Nancy from Bristol did it. Smashing lass. Met her in a ‘Schoolchums’ group for ornamental sawcraft. She and her husband are visiting Saturday. We’re off to the match.”
“*Nancy*? What match? Dad, you were meant to go *with me*!”
“So come along—bring the missus. Though, mind, I sent her a friend request weeks ago, and she’s ignored it.”
“I can’t—Brighton, remember?”
“What’s the issue, then? Speaking of, I’m flying there Monday—made a new pal. Fancy meeting up? Coffee and marzipan, then we’ll tour the piers. Bring your mates if you like.”
His father was unrecognisable—new slang, a glint in his eye.
“I’m *working*, Dad, not ‘hanging out.’ And I don’t know *any* of these friends of yours—”
“Nor do I. Might not even like them! Met one the other day—turns out he *works* at the Ministry of Silly Walks. Reckon he’s the boss. Oh, and five of *your* Brighton lot sent me requests.”
“Seriously?”
Oliver racked his brain—which of his five hundred ‘friends’ lived in Brighton? He could only name seven he’d actually *seen* in a decade. Most he’d added thoughtlessly, barely glancing at their profiles.
“How are you affording these trips?” he asked.
“Sold the allotment.”
“The *allotment*?!” Oliver’s vision swam. “But you loved it there!”
“*You* loved dumping me there weekends to pick berries. I was bored stiff. If not for Catherine’s ‘exclusive loan offers,’ I’d have started sprouting fruit myself. Oh—drop me at her work? They reduced her sentence for ratting out her cellmates. Ought to meet her before she’s freed. Won’t stay in touch, but—for old times’ sake.”
Oliver digested this poorly but couldn’t refuse.
That evening, he sat at his laptop, scrolling past strangers’ updates. “*Who are these people?One evening, as Oliver absentmindedly scrolled past yet another unfamiliar face, his father burst in, suitcase in hand, grinning: “Pack your bags, lad—Jack Durian’s invited us to Cape Town, and I’ve already booked the tickets.”
