**To Friend or Not to Friend?**
“Dad, stop being so stubborn!” For forty minutes, Oliver had been trying to digitise his father’s identity, hoping to release him into the vast ocean of social media. But the old man resisted.
“I don’t need any of it!” His father clutched his ancient button phone, now flooded with activation codes. “You lot can flounder in your digital sea—leave me out of it. I’ve got enough vices as it is.”
“It’s for keeping in touch,” Oliver pressed. “You’ll find old schoolmates, army mates, work colleagues…”
“God forbid!” His father flung the phone out the window—thankfully, they were on the ground floor. “Half of them are probably dead already. Plenty of time to catch up later.”
“But the other half aren’t. Talk to them! Right now, it’s just me and Emily—or those scam callers you love chatting with.”
“And unlike you two, they actually listen! Spent three hours yesterday with ‘Katie the Loan Officer’ from some shady call centre. Do you know how hard it is to upsell financial products after hours?”
“Just give it a week. If you hate it, I’ll never mention it again.”
“Fine. But you’re coming to the football match in May,” his father bargained.
“I told you, I’ll be in Brighton for work,” Oliver called from the garden, retrieving the phone from the bushes.
“You said you might not go,” his father shot back from the window.
“*Might* not. I’ll let you know. Now, five minutes—I’ll set it all up. You’ll be socialising like a normal person.”
Oliver returned to the creaky old computer.
“Don’t need your blasted world…”
“What was that?”
“Get on with it, you digital hustler.”
The idea had been his wife’s—tired of her father-in-law calling at all hours to retell his same old stories. Let him bore others instead. And maybe he’d stop vanishing for hours chasing supermarket discounts—though Oliver doubted it.
“You’re talking about *my* father,” Oliver reminded her.
“And I’m judging by my own,” she’d retorted. The argument always ended there.
That evening, a frantic call came. “Oliver! Some stranger’s trying to add me as a friend!”
“That’s the point! Accept him—chat!”
“I’ve never seen this bloke! How’d he even find me? I haven’t touched that bloody site!”
“We filled in your details—school, work, interests. Maybe you knew him years ago…”
“Oliver, that was a lifetime ago!”
“Then maybe you hunted mammoths together. Just talk to him. I’ve got work.”
“Christ, Oliver, you’ve saddled me with a right headache…”
Four days later, another call:
“Oliver, pick me up from the station.”
“*The station?* What are you doing there this late?” His wife’s warnings about ‘wandering old men’ echoed in his mind.
“Waited forty minutes for the bus. Could’ve walked, but my suitcase wheel broke.”
“Stay put—I’m coming!”
“Wouldn’t dream of leaving—my personal chauffeur’s on his way.”
He found his father on a bench, oddly polished—shaved, pressed, in new shoes.
“Where’ve you been?” Oliver asked, tossing the suitcase into the boot.
“Visiting Dave Wilkins. Lives in Gloucester,” his father muttered.
“*Gloucester?* That’s hours away! Who’s Dave Wilkins?”
“My new mate. From that site.” His father gazed out the window, pensive. “Though friendship’s iffy—he supports Chelsea. You know how I feel about that lot.”
“Hold on.” Oliver slowed over a speed bump. “You just met him *and went to his house*?”
“Course! I don’t add just anyone. Had to see what he’s about—talk proper, check his eyes, his politics…”
“Dad, online friends don’t require all that. That’s the *point*.”
“People make babies online now too?”
“What’s *that* got to do with—?”
“Everything, Oliver! I don’t trust a man I’ve not shared a pint with. My friends are *vetted*.”
“Alright, fine!” Oliver backtracked, not wanting to scare him off. “But warn me next time. I should know where you are.”
“Message received!” 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 by Monday.”
“Dad—signal’s dodgy. Did you say *Newcastle*?”
“Signal’s fine. Yes, Newcastle. Met two lads from my old regiment—different years, but still. Don’t fret; I’ll grab a taxi. Learned to use the app.”
“Dad, you’re *mad*! Stay put! I’ll take you to the match when I’m back—no more trips!” Too late. Oliver had opened Pandora’s box.
“Can’t hear—we’re taxiing. See you at the match!”
Days later, Oliver checked his father’s profile—*five new friends*. One local (promising), but “Linda Shackleton” lived near the Scottish border. A chill ran down his spine.
He returned home intending to hide his father’s passport—only to find him already gone, this time to Cornwall. They reunited weeks later. His father was tanned, wearing a handmade shirt, and—most alarming—sporting a tattoo of his football club.
“Nancy from York did it. Lovely girl. Met in the ‘Extreme Woodworking’ group. Her and her husband are coming Saturday—we’re off to the match.”
“*What* Nancy? *What* match? You were going with *me*!”
“Bring your missus then! Sent her a friend request weeks ago—still pending.”
“I *can’t*—Brighton!”
“Your problem, not mine. Fancy meeting Monday? I’m flying there—made a new pal. Coffee and marzipan, then forts?”
His father was *unrecognisable*—new slang, a gleam in his eye.
“I’ll be *working*—not ‘hanging out.’ And I don’t know these people!”
“Neither do I. Might not even like them. Met one bloke—turns out he’s head of some useless ministry. Oh, and five of your ‘friends’ live in Brighton.”
“*Seriously?*”
Oliver scanned his 500 ‘friends,’ recalling only seven. Most he’d added thoughtlessly.
“How are you *affording* this?”
“Sold the allotment.”
“The—*allotment*? You *loved* it there!”
“*You* loved dumping me there to pick berries. I was bored stiff. If not for ‘Katie the Loan Officer,’ I’d have started growing *myself*. Drop me at her call centre? She got early release for ratting out her mates. Want to meet her before she’s free—for old times’ sake.”
Oliver reeled but couldn’t refuse.
That night, he scrolled his own ‘friends’ list, wondering, *Who are these people?*
Spotting a dozen new requests, he hesitated. Instead, he messaged Tim—his childhood neighbour, unseen in fifteen years.
*Fancy a BBQ? Catch up? Can’t even remember your face.*
*Busy for weeks. I’ll text you.*
Oliver sighed. *So much for old friends.*
Then he spotted a stranger from Brighton—added on a whim. On impulse, he invited him for coffee.
*Deal!* came the eager reply.
Thrilled, Oliver called his father.
“Told you! You’ve got to *meet* people!”
“Yeah, yeah. See you soon.”
“Oh—help me get a passport?”
“*Why?!*”
“Some Jack Durian from Australia added me. Fancy checking him out.”
“Dad! That’s a *scam*!”
“Oliver, I won’t judge a man I’ve not shared a beer with.”
