The best of the advice: How to make friends and influence people

So I asked for advice, and advice I got. No postcards yet, but I live in hope.

How do you find friends as an adult I asked.  

Here’s the best of the advice I've received.

Several friends thought fit to warn me off alcohol in my quest for companionship:

“How about an AA meeting?” one quipped. “Stop drinking beer in the greengrocers – it’s probably giving off the wrong image.”

Gee, thanks.

Of course someone else suggested finding a home on the other side of the bar, “I've always found that working part-time in a bar is a good way to meet a heap of people. Especially if it is a place you like to drink yourself, it's a perfect excuse to chat to pretty much everybody else in the room.”

From elsewhere came advice to seek holier help, “Go to church!” was followed by “very odd and unusual folks attend church. If evangelical – take your towel and cossie.”  

Many folks ‘felt my pain.’ “I hear you” one said. “Late 20s IS a tough time to relocate,” replied another, “ I moved to Edinburgh at 28 and damn, it was tough. Made lots of friends by having a baby.”

Woah – that’s a bit drastic love.

Moving on.

“In the quest for love, my lovely former neighbour trialed numerous different lady-seeking methodologies, I think including a billboard.”

So, I need to wander around this very small place wearing a billboard ‘MATES REQUIRED?’

Never mind drinking in the greengrocer, a billy-no-mates-billboard really would give off a certain impression.

“Join a uke group.” Yes I’d love to – but there’s not one. Could take uke to pub alone and hope to have influence of pied piper. Worry this will have outcome of billboard wearing.

“Get a dog” came a chorus of responses. “Not for friendship with the dog ( although that would be good) but for friendship with other dog walkers.” Whilst I would like a hound, at the present time gaining a hound might mean losing The Boyfriend. When I pointed this out to one such dog-advocate, she replied “There are pros and cons to most decisions.”

And finally, in your hour of need, you know you can depend on the support and encouragement of those far flung friends you already have “Bloody hell Rach – how hard can it be? I read earlier in the week that even Justin Bieber has 4 friends.”

And with that I am off to the pub.

Alone.

Personal ad: Friends Required. Do I even have a GSOH?

How do you make friends? No really. It’s a serious inquiry.  As a child the sole criteria of friendship is liking the same toy. Boom – you’re pals.

Seems it doesn’t quite work the same way at 29.

Now I have school friends, who knew me through the bad hairstyles, the teenage angst, the smirnoff ice. University friends, with whom I laughed, lived and drank jack daniels. And friends whom I have been lucky enough to pick up on my travels since then. Housemates, former work colleagues, friends of friends.

But having once again upped sticks and relocated to the actual arse end of nowhere, I’m at a bit of a loss. Sympathy is not what I’m looking for. I chose to move 600 miles to a place where I knew nobody. I am by the sea. I do have friends. But they’re not exactly here to pop out for a beer with are they? No they’re bloody not.

Obviously I have The Boyfriend, which is making the whole thing infinitely more enjoyable; but it would be nice to have a token friend whom I could meet for gin, or tea, or a non-drink based activity. And I know from previous experience that this friend-making-as-an-adult malarkey takes time. So I’m starting immediately.


Efforts to date:

1.    Went to book swap in local pub. Saw sign in the window, was brave and went alone. Beers and books – surely I’m going to like these people. And like them I did. But I also brought the average age down by at least 40 years. Beers drank 1. Friends made 0.

2.    Being lovely at new job. Naturally it’s a challenge to be smiley. Lots of friendly people who comment on my nice coat. Attended all work drinks in spirit of being social, but must accept these things are organic and take time. Did find lovely lady with whom could discuss The Big Reunion. Beers drank 6. Friends made 0.

3.  Yoga classes. Very enjoyable to align self with sea and all that, and bendyness coming along nicely. However, little opportunity for conversation, and definitely no beer. (Was brief titter when lovely prim lady farted, mind.) Beers drank 0. Friends made 0.

I suppose I did have a beer in the greengrocers when I popped in for groceries one evening, so there's another beer on the tally. 

But readers  where the heck you find like (ish) minded nice people who are looking to welcome you (or rather me) into their social life?

Answers on a postcard. Or in a tweet. Whichever.

In Good Company

Every time I go back to my home town of Wolverhampton, I look forward to seeing the school girls. These are friends whom I have known since the age of 11, and together we lived through pre-ghd hairstyles, dreadful boyfriends, and several years of PE in ‘navy pants.’ 

Nowadays it seems as natural to discuss the bank’s base rate as it does the best place to get your foundation. Anyway, you know you’re getting on when one of you says:

“Look at that girl without a coat.

For the record she also didn’t seem to be sporting much of a skirt.

Does she not realise it’s November?

Longing look at bare arms.

Remember when we didn't wear coats?”

Much hilarity was enjoyed. In fact, we almost certainly ruined the Friday night dinner of several couples with our raucous behaviour.

I thought I’d share my highlights.

On Parking.

Friend 1: “You know I’m a bit worried about my car.”

Friend 2: “Why’s that?”

Friend 1: “Well I parked it somewhere that said ‘clamping in operation.’"

Friend 2: “why did you do that?”

Friend 1: “ well I was driving to my work’s car park, but then someone else’s work car park was nearer, so I just dumped it there.”

Friend 2: “Right.”

Friend 1: “Yes and the sign said clamping was in operation – but what kind of clamper works on a Friday night? It’ll be fine.”

Friend 2: “This sounds worryingly like the time you parked in the bay reserved for charging an electric car in Birmingham.”

Friend 1: Laughs “Oh god”

Friend 2: “Yes you had 2 lovely tickets for that one.”

Friend 1: “You know I remember that I couldn’t believe my luck getting such a good parking spot. I’d been driving for ages and it was so convenient.”

Friend 2: “Wasn’t there a sign?”

Friend 2: “Turns out yes. And a big, well, flashing plug. I thought how handy it was to have an emergency i-phone charger in the carpark.”

I am pleased to report that the evening passed without a clamping or ticketing incident.

On being born in the 1990s.

Friend 1: “My ex has got a new girlfriend.”

Friend 2: “Oh no, I’m sorry love.”

Friend 1: “No, it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but I wrote a poem about it today.”

Friend 2: “A poem?”

Friend 1: “Yes.”

Friend 2: “Dare I ask, what about?”

Friend 1: “Well her twitter name game me a clue about her date of birth.”

Friend 2: “You’re stalking her on twitter?”

Friend 1: “Not stalking no. Researching.”

Friend 2: “Oh that’s alright then.”

Friend 1: “I know. Anyway. Turns out, she’s young.”

Friend 2: “Uhuh.”

Friend 1: “Yes, so the title is ‘Born in the 90s.”

Friend 2: “Have you ever thought you might have missed your calling as a feminist beat poet?”

Friend 1: “Now you mention it….”

So if you were in Made in Thai in Wolverhampton on Friday night, that was what we were all laughing at.

And if you weren't, you can read about what happened on one of our previous meet ups here.

Navy Pants: A conversation with a school friend

Hannah: I saw on your blog that you’re going to run a half marathon - well done you. I wish I could do something like that.

Me: Gee thanks, but you totally could too. Come on, do it with us. (Have already become running evangelist and bore when unable to run one mile.)

Hannah: No really, couldn’t do it. Not a runner. Can’t run fast enough. In fact, run at half the speed of Usain Bolt. (Seems very specific quip)

Me: What?

Hannah: Yes, I remember when I ran the 100 metres at school in 1996. It took me 18 seconds. Usain can run it in 9.

Me: Doesn’t seem that slow to me.

Hannah: Well that was when I was 12. I'm not sure could maintain that speed now. Anyway -you would say that – you ran it in 14.

Me: 14? (Wonder how I have forgotten this fact and mourn missed opportunity of athletics career.)

Hannah: Yes, 14 seconds. I remember thinking how fast you were. I also remember you doing the long-jump and falling face down into the sand.

Me: Oh. (Imaginary athletics career comes to abrupt end.)

Hannah: Do you remember the navy pants?

Me: Yes. I have still not recovered.

(Navy pants were the gym briefs our school forced us to wear for athletics. Our all girls school field shared a fence with the local comp. Our lunch breaks fell at different times, which meant our athletic attempts were often witnessed by large crowds of the neighbouring school. Who heckled. The school told us it was character building.) 

Hannah: Ah, it was character building.

Me: If you say so.

Hannah: You know this half marathon, you’re running it with Nat aren’t you?

Me: Yes.

Hannah: Oh, it’s just that I can remember her in athletics too. Yes, I remember her doing the 800 metres and throwing up at the end of it.

Me: Great. (we’re both going to die and will never make it.)

Hannah: You know, you could always run it in navy pants. 

Laughter is the best medicine

You have some friends with whom you have laughed.

I mean really laughed.

Some of those friends came to visit me this weekend, and my face still hurts from all the laughing. My ribs hurt too. I’m not entirely sure why – I think it had something to do with the ceilidh – but I can’t be certain.  

With these friends I’ve had some high-jinx.

I have fallen off a cliff whilst abseiling, almost been washed out to sea on a raft-building exercise and been stranded (in a tent) on a remote island when rough seas stopped the ferries.

Actually, now I’m writing this, perhaps I should give up outdoor pursuits before something serious happens.

You just can’t make this stuff up. I often wonder why anyone would write fiction when what actually happens is so amazing. And what did we do, in every instance? We laughed.

Hang on a minute, what kind of friends would laugh when you fell off a cliff? Come to mention it, one of them even took the time to photograph the moment for prosperity.

Anyway.

How about you? When did you last laugh until you lost your breath? I’m not suggesting you need to almost drown on a raft; but what if, just for today, you were to throw in at least a few extra laughs? Maybe even a couple of real happy long ones, so hearty that someone else starts laughing too? Your workmates won’t know what has hit them.

Laugh often. Laugh until the tears stream down your face and your ribs hurt. Because apparently, laughter is the best medicine.

And considering the quantities of red wine that accompanied it this weekend, it really needs to be.

On getting pickier

This weekend I caught up with a couple of old girl friends. Not ‘old’ in age you understand, but in years of knowing. Although perhaps those things are intertwined nowadays. Jees, are they? We do all use eyecream after all.

Anyway, Friday night was a chance to catch up. We have known each other since 1995, when we started senior school. In 1995 I considered it ‘the fashion’ to hair-spray my fringe into individual strands, wear an Adidas drill top, and had my first kiss (with a runty boy named James) at the Grammar School Disco. I was, I recall, wearing a classic two-piece from Tammy Girl and lipstick from Miss Selfridge.

So, out came the old photo albums. We laughed so much that red wine was spilt all over the sofa. Luckily, because we are now grown ups we knew exactly how to deal with this situation and chucked the best part of a bottle of pinot grigio on after it.

After the spill, conversation turned to the old boyfriends. Luckily James from the Grammar School Disco did not come up. We’d only had one date anyway, on the 510 bus the following Monday morning. He went to the boys school, me to the girls. It was never going to work.

We remembered the days when one kiss consummated your relationship. Boyfriend and girlfriend you became. Criteria for the accolade of ‘boyfriend’ was limited at best. Two boys, two girls, and one question. ‘Which one do you want?’

Over the years we’ve really kissed an unfair share of frogs.

But at some point we developed an idea of what our boyfriend should be -  a list of criteria that our dream man must measure up to. This never quite panned out of course, most likely because our lists were utter nonsense.

Worryingly I have watched my friends dismiss lovely men because they didn’t match up to the romantic ideal that they had developed. On the other hand I have witnessed people dating absolute cretins because they apparently ticked all the boxes.

But on Friday, as we finished off the bottle, we all agreed that real relationships are bloody hard work. They are not one continual dream of romance, fluffy animals and mini-breaks. Love is not a big ring, or a box of thorntons chocolates.

 A man who sorts the rubbish and puts it in the right sacks for collection – well there is one that’s worth sticking with.

Of course, if he could also pick his towels off the floor, not make crumbs in the bed and know how to rustle up a risotto – well that would be super.  There are some criteria worth holding onto.