Last week, we saw something really sweet: two men in their fifties making friends in the pub.
When you’re a kid, making friends is easy — you just run up and say, ‘Can I play?’ and, about an hour later, you might well be BEST FRIENDS FOREVER — but once you’re older than, say, 22, it suddenly becomes a strangely big deal.
The pub is about the only place we can think of where that line can be crossed, albeit with a little residual awkwardness.
In this case, Bloke 1 was sitting in the corner at the bar making conversation with the much younger, bored-looking bar staff, when Bloke 2 entered with his dog.
Bloke 2 ordered a pint and, crucially, stayed at the bar to drink it, rather than scurrying off to a quiet corner with his newspaper. As he took the first sip, Bloke 1 made his move, pointing at the dog. ‘What breed is she?’
They talked dogs for a minute or so until Bloke 2 said, ‘Are you on holiday, then?’
‘No,’ said Bloke 1, before adding, casually but hopefully, ‘My wife and I have been living in the village since before Christmas but I don’t really know anyone.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Bloke 2. He cleared his throat and stuck out a hand, muttering shyly, ‘I’m, er, Dave.’
It was really rather a moving moment.
When we left some time later, they were still talking and seemed to have progressed to buying rounds.
Main image: adapted from ‘Friendship’ by johnthescone from Flickr under Creative Commons.
