
“Excuse me, is this anybody’s seat?”
Harry hardly registered the question as he was asked it so often, but answered automatically nonetheless.
“Help yourself,” he said, barely raising his eyes from the book on his lap. The chair scraped back from the table, but was not, as he had anticipated, carried away. Instead a glass of wine appeared and a figure – little more than a shadow to his downcast vision – sat down.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
He did mind frankly, but he was courteous enough at least to mumble something that could just possibly be “Not at all,” with all the conviction of a Socialist Estate Agent.
“I’ve never seen you in here before,” the voice continued. “But then again, it’s the first time I’ve ever been in here, so…”
Harry felt obliged to look up. The interloper was female, around – he guessed – his own age and staring straight at him. He could have felt disquieted – she didn’t look like a stalker, although you never can tell – but instead he was intrigued. Why would anyone, least of all – on the face of it at least – a perfectly normal woman, choose to sit with him in what was, admittedly, a pretty full pub?
“Well, this is awkward isn’t it?” she said, the pause in conversation having reached Scandi Noir levels. “Is this situation weird? It is, isn’t it? Oh dear, maybe I shouldn’t have sat here. Should I go?”
“It’s fine,” Harry said, closing his book in an attempt to appear decisive. “It’s just … Look, when you’re sitting alone – as you may have noticed I was – people always come to ask you about the spare chair. It’s no problem, they just take it and that’s where it ends. Nobody ever just sits on it.”
“I know,” she said. “Muriel.” She held her hand out for him to shake. A bemused smile flashed across his face as he took the hand and said “Harry, I’m Harry.”
“Oh God,” moaned Muriel, “I’ve no idea why I did that. I mean, we’re not in a business meeting are we. I just… It’s busy in here tonight, isn’t it?”
“Quiz night,” said Harry
“Oh, do you do the quiz?”
“In a manner of speaking,” answered Harry. “I write down the answers, but I don’t enter. I’m on my own as you can see and people don’t take kindly to you doing well in a pub quiz, if you don’t have a team.”
“Maybe I could be your partner… In the quiz I mean… Obviously…”
“Why not?” he said, laying his book down on the table.
“What are you reading?”
Harry risked a brief glance at the book’s cover. “A Study in Scarlet,” he said, painfully aware that the slightly tatty paperback was little more than a suit of armour for him. A means to discourage unwanted conversation.
Muriel searched through her handbag. “I carry this,” she said, placing an equally dog-eared copy of Cold Comfort Farm on the table in front of her. “I mean, I love it and I’ve read it a thousand times, but in a pub, or a restaurant, on a bus, or in a hotel, I just open it and stare. It is my breathing space.”
“I’ll go and get our names down for the quiz,” said Harry, rising to his feet. “Would you?…” he nodded towards her now empty glass.
“Why not?” she answered.
Harry returned with a glass of wine, a pint of beer and the quiz sheet. “I didn’t know what to put as a team name,” he said, “so I just put Muriel and Harry.”
Muriel smiled. “I approve. Do you normally do well?” she asked. “You said that you write the answers down, even though you don’t enter. Do you do well?”
“I do ok,” he answered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been last.”
“Have you ever won?”
“From time to time,” he answered.
“Oh dear, I hope I’m not a bad omen.”
“It’s only a quiz,” he said. “I’m like everybody else. I know a lot of stuff, but I don’t know a whole lot more. What are you like at music?”
“I like Soul,” she said, sipping the wine.
“Well that’s ok then, because I can’t stand it. You’re one up on me already.”
“Sauvignon,” she said, smiling gratefully. “I thought you might get me Chardonnay.”
“I’ve only just met you,” he said. “I see no reason to upset you so soon.”
Muriel sipped her wine again. “Why that book?” she asked.
“I like it,” he answered. “I like the humour in it. Film-makers, television people, they always miss that. It’s just subtle enough for them not to get it. Besides, I’ve read it so many times that I can answer questions as if I am reading it if anyone asks. What about you and Stella Gibbons? Somehow I’d have expected Jane Austen.”
Muriel grimaced. “And we were getting along so well,” she said. “If there is a literature round in this quiz, you will discover that I really don’t know my Austen from my Bronte, nor, if I’m honest, my Bronte from my Bronte. I have, I am told, a particular sense of humour. Cold Comfort Farm made me giggle as a schoolgirl and I have carried it with me ever since. Most men, I have found, have never heard of it and so are very unlikely to embark on a conversation about it.”
“Would it disturb you if I did?”
“No,” she said. “…But don’t. I could have gone to the library for that.”
“Well, I’m beginning to get an idea of where we stand in this quiz: Soul music, tick, literary parody, tick, now how are you on history?”
“I’m of an age where I remember most of it: even life before mobile phones and home computers; two channels on the TV and nothing after The National Anthem at eleven o’clock. I remember when teenagers shared their deepest hopes and fears with a diary… and that had a lock on it.”
Harry laughed. “I guess we have to hope there’s no ‘Social Media’ round as well then. Maybe we should call ourselves The Analogue Kids next time,” he said.
Muriel raised an eyebrow. “Next time?” Harry could feel his face reddening. “Next time would be good,” she continued. “Perhaps you could save me a seat…
‘The Analog Kid’ is a 1982 song by Rush which, according to t’internet ‘captures the restless longing of youth, the pull of teenage freedom, and the bittersweet transition from a simple childhood into the complex adult world’. It also, I think, captures the spirit of people of ‘our age’ battling to get to grips with a new world.




