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.

Lessons from a house move

Moving, as people will cheerfully tell you, is only slightly less stressful than divorce or death. I have come out the other side. Here is my survival guide.


1. Do not develop a horrendous chest infection the day before relocating 600 miles. It will make the whole thing rather more challenging.

2. Before arriving at the Van Hire company, do check that your license photocard is in date. Turns out, they expire.

3. Accept from the beginning that you will not leave sufficient time to pack and will, at the final hour, be forced to throw any old crap in boxes at speed.

4. Cleaning your house will take much longer than expected. You will find dirt that you didn't know existed. Use the clothes you just cannot face packing to clean it up.

5. Do not forget that you have to clean the fridge. You will be repulsed by the horrors within.

6.  Do not try and reverse a long wheel base van. It's amazing how one relies on the view out of that back window.

7. Enlist the help of family members, but do not inform them of how long their train journey back home will take. There is a chance they will retract the offer of assistance.

8. There is a reason why you are advised to label your boxes. 

9. If your bedbase snaps en route, duct tape will prove surprisingly effective at holding it together.

10. When all you own is finally boxed and packed precariously in the back of van, you will have an uncharacteristic moment of melancholy. And then you will be excited about what is next to come.

 Goodbye Edinburgh, it's been a blast.

What's a bit of mould between friends?

As the move south is just one month away, it was about time I found somewhere to live. This was not, I might add, like flat hunting in Edinburgh, which is jam-packed full of the blasted things.  No, St Ives, it transpires, is a baron wasteland of habitable rental properties.

There were times when living in a caravan was looking like an extremely appealing option.

Choosing a house – sorry, flat, sorry, box – to rent is not fun, not at all.

I do not care if the bathroom suite is avocado, but I do care if damp covers an entire wall. 'I’ve never seen it like this before' insisted the estate agent. And I will not be seeing it again – period.

It is genuinely not considered good etiquette to comment on the cleanliness in front of the people who live there. 'I don’t think this house has ever been cleaned,' I muttered under my breath at the sight of a number of dead insects on the kitchen lino.

‘Don’t mind the wife - she’s just in bed with the norovirus – go on in,’  said an enthusiastic tenant. I breathed in and popped my head round the door. Then made a mad dash to the exit and bathed in antibacterial hand-wash.

The final straw was viewing a flat in a converted attic. The owners couldn't find the keys to the door, so I had to go up through the entrance in their home. As I entered the flat the owner laughed, 'Don’t worry, once you live here that door will be always be locked.'

I was about to move into a Bronte novel.

So one thing is certain, when you finally find somewhere that is mould free, does not have a carpeted bathroom or things growing on the lino, you will not remember anything about it – like how big the lounge is, or whether you can fit a table in the kitchen.  You will simply be glad that you will not be living in Mr Rochester’s attic.