I’M less likely to venture out of the house these days, more content with my own company than small talk with a stranger I’ve met in a queue for something I’m ordering for someone else.
I don’t think it’s the entertainment or the experience, or necessarily the company I find myself happy to do without. It’s the hassle. The waiting. The weather. The drive.
Oh dear. I’ve become the old man I promised never to be.
The thing is, when I’m there, I’m usually quite happy, taking in the atmosphere, the smells, the colours and the infectious smiles of those around me.
I just need Wanda to give me a hurry up from the couch, a little prod to replace my holey socks with the good “going out” pair with the horizontal stripes on them. My children tell me brown socks are no longer “in”, so I wear what they give me for last Father’s Day in preparation for another September gathering.
Yes, this weekend they’ll be wanting me to go somewhere I probably won’t want to go until they get me there, at which point I’ll be having a dandy old time.
Maybe they’ll take me to a pub, thinking the old man loves a drink and will therefore appreciate the noisy offerings of a place where there’s more beer on the sticky floor than the half-full glass they push over the counter.
Last time I went to a live venue, there was a man playing modernised versions of Simon and Garfunkel. The new version was good, slightly up-tempo, but recognisable enough to sing aloud.
The melodies of the 60s were quickly replaced with a trio of big hair whose penchant for Tears for Fears and Spandau Ballet was contagious. You’d think it was a mid-week, mid-morning oldies dance session at the local RSL, but no.
Looking around, average age of the crowd was probably mid-20s, although my age radar is a little off these days. Could well have been mid-30s.
Regardless, here we were listening – and collectively admiring – hits from 40 years ago in a room full of people who weren’t born when the hits were, well … hits.
Some things don’t change. The sticky floors, for example. The sweaty bodies. The boy or girl collecting glasses well above their head in a workplace health and safety disaster waiting to happen.
But some things do. Like the cigarette machine which is no longer a cigarette machine. Now, it’s an ATM.
There are no queues because we’re all ordering food and drinks on our phone. Convenient, true. However, what excuse has that left us to stretch our legs.
“You right for a drink?” I say as cramp starts tugging at the back of my knees. “I’ll get them,” I continue, bending the tendons as I make my way to the bar.
Then I think of that ATM machine. If everyone’s ordering food and drinks via their phone, using a number from the card they’d normally put into an ATM machine, why would anyone – ever – have the need to extract cash?
Even the juke box, which has evidently returned to vogue, offers up the opportunity to tap your card in return for your chosen song.
If I am dragged along to a venue of collective celebration this Father’s Day, I’ll once again begin with reluctance. When we arrive, I’ll look around at those like me, and I’ll be grateful for the company and conversation I’m given by my wonderful family.
I’ll see that a little bit of music, colourful characters, and an unused ATM machine make the world a more fascinating place, and I’ll embrace the day.
Then we’ll all return to the comfort of our respective homes where we’ll turn to the same phones from which we’d ordered our food.
We might call, but more likely we’ll text, telling everyone what a wonderful time we had.
Importantly, it will be true. Because times like these are a reminder of our support network, of the people who care enough to compromise, to express their love by being with those they love.
Hey Wanda, can you grab me a tissue? I think I’m becoming a sentimental old fool.
