I silently raise my glass to him

It was fairly quiet in the pub tonight. It used to be that we would walk in what might be called the west door, and turn towards the bar on the left, get our drinks and settle there. Now it seems more often that we sit in what we call the cross-benches, the bar between our usual bar and the bar at the end. The bar at the end is where the poker players gather on Monday night, it’s the bar where the young and noisy regulars gather, it’s the bar where many of the old Dolphin regulars gather.

Tonight there were a few people in the bar on the left and we drifted through to the cross-benches. The cross-benches is a parliamentary name for the part of the House of Commons where the smaller parties sit, the independents, the minor players in our system of government. We sat in the cross-benches and gazed sadly at the stool where the legend who is Terry used to sit before he became poorly. Now two other regulars, friends, sat there, drinking and chatting amiably. Through the other end were the usual noisy youths enjoying themselves – it’s great to see people of all ages in the pub!

We sat together, himself on Butcombe beer, me on Atlantic Pale Ale from Sharp’s brewery. Although I admire Butcombe beers, they are not quite to my taste. We had a pleasant evening, and then sauntered home down the deserted village streets, and my mind turned here to my blog, and to a friend I made through it, David. He ‘followed’ me for many years, and would comment on what I wrote – particularly the pub posts. He lived in Canada and I would always reply to his comments – he was perceptive and funny, and although we only communicated through comments on my blog, we became friends.

Becoming friends on social media is weird, and can be difficult – although I have “met” two of my best and closest friends in this way as well as many other people who regularly communicate with me. It’s lovely – and i value them and enjoy their “company”. After many years, David suddenly stopped commenting. I tried not to believe it, but the reason was obvious. He wasn’t fed up with what I wrote, or with my responses to his comments, it was more tragic than that. David had died, unexpectedly and sadly before his time. I only realised this after many months of missing him, and more months of trying to discover what had happened.

Now, whenever I write about the pub, or other pubs, or beer, or things about my life, or other random things, I think of him. It’s strange to miss someone you’ve never met and have only communicated with through public messages – but frequently, when I’m in the Dolphin, I silently raise my glass to him.