Hello, my old friend

The blanket of mist that hid the city this morning has dissipated by midday so I choose to sit and eat my lunch in the Sharrow general cemetery and enjoy the brilliant sunshine and blue sky while they last.

I'm watching a blackbird pulling a worm from the ground when I hear a voice shout, "Sam!"

The bird struggles its tug of war to victory and hops away to the bushes with its spoils in its beak.

The voice, closer now, calls out, "Sam?" again and this time I actually look around.

And frown.

The man dressed in loose brown slacks and a polo shirt, walking towards me, looks familiar but I can't place him. At least, not at first. Then, as he gets closer, he smiles broadly, showing his full set of teeth right back to the molars, and suddenly a memory falls into place. I know those teeth, I know that grin…

Peter MacGirwan. I used to work with him, tending bar at one of the god-awful West Street meat-market drinking-holes, now mercifully long closed, rebranded and reopened probably several times by now. He's changed quite dramatically since I last saw him, maybe four, maybe five years ago. The long, lank hair, usually tied back, has gone; instead his mousey brown locks are clippered short revealing his receding hairline. The full, bushy beard, however, is quite new, as are the glasses.

"Hey, man," he says in his burned-out stoner voice - some things never change. "I thought that was you. Didn't you hear me?"

"Nobody calls me that anymore," I tell him.

"Really?" he asks. "You changed your name? By deed poll?"

"Something like that," I say.

"How's what's-her-name…? Lily?"

And I can't help but laugh. "Lily and I broke up, like, three years ago, dude!"

"Bummer," he says. "She was hot."

"Right," I say. "Cheers."

We sit together and we talk a while. Reminisce about wild times, stupid acts of reckless abandon, and bad craziness narrowly avoided. It seems like two lifetimes ago.

Pete's now married, with a kid on the way, and lives in Bournemouth where he works as a financial analyst. He's just in town for a couple of days visiting relatives. I have trouble reconciling such a responsible grown-up with the hard-core hedonist that I used to know.

He asks me what I'm up to these days. I 'um…' and 'er…' and try to change the subject, telling him I have to go back to work.

We trade phone numbers and promise to go for a drink before he leaves. I know we won't, but we make the promise anyway.

He tells me to give him a call if I ever get down to the coast and I tell him I will.

And I go back to work, an odd mixture of nostalgia and regret clinging to me like a bad smell.