Colin Sheridan: Why extending the hand of friendship can be a tall order

An overthought coffee meet-up ends in awkward hugs, literary quotes, and the quiet heartbreak of adult friendship

Cycling to the rendezvous venue was a recipe for trouble. File picture

A dear friend, perhaps thinking I needed some spiritual guidance, put me in touch with another friend as they were passing through town last week, and insisted we meet.

“You like the same things,” she insisted, and by that I didn’t know whether she meant Jean-Claude Izzo, Mediterranean noir novels, or coleslaw.

Still, this friend has rarely put me wrong and has a famously kind heart so, eager to please, I set about establishing contact with the other friend, who for the purposes of this exercise we shall call Friend Eile.

Do you voice-note a stranger, or just a straightforward text?

Always unsure of social convention, I opted for a hybrid, which I understand is likely disconcerting for the recipient, who probably just wants consistency in the communication they receive.

Like everything in life, the more you overthink, the more likely you are to confuse not just yourself, but those who really are only trying to fulfil the contract of friendship they involuntarily signed up for and meet a damn stranger for a cup of coffee.

Place and time eventually established, the next mental hurdle to be cleared was manoeuvring the greeting. I’d just returned home from Lebanon, where kisses are de rigueur.

The problem there is, depending on the kissee, one doesn’t know until halfway through the kissing how many kisses are going to be kissed. It’s sometimes two, sometimes three.

Being Irish, and not of kissing stock, training yourself to kiss without making “hmmmmmmmm” sounds, while also retaining a modicum of physical grace under pressure, is an unnatural thing to do.

Walking into the room to meet Friend Eile, I had to remind myself that no kisses were necessary. That’s for French architects and wealth managers. We are a nation of hand shakers. Huggers at funerals. Thumps on shoulders at weddings.

So, I picked a course of action and stuck to it. Regardless of what pleasantries were offered to me, I was shaking hands, firm but fair, and offering no opening for anything else. 

Too traumatised am I by misreading signs of over or under familiarity that first meetings require a level of mental planning and preparation befitting the Normandy landings.

I nailed the landing, executing a strong but casual handshake the way one might during peace offerings at Mass, a safe space when the parameters of the social contract are clear; shake hands, move on.

The next hour or so was spent confirming what our mutual friend thought.

Shared interests

Interests were shared, beyond coleslaw and Mediterranean noir, and plans were made for future collaborations.

“Is this what networking is?” I thought, as my new friend politely took a phone call, allowing me time to revel in my newfound maturity, daydreaming as I was about creating a LinkedIn profile with a picture of me staring artistically out to sea, a quote from Homer’s Iliad tempting views from haughty literary magazines — “Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed” etc.

With the encounter nearing a successful end, Friend Eile mentioned requiring a taxi to the train station.

Buoyed by bombast, I offered to take them in my car, an offer that was well received and accepted.

This is adulthood. Making friends with like-minded creatives. Giving lifts and exchanging ideas like a couple of subterranean resistance fighters conspiring against Vichy France.

Hubris, however, is a cruel mistress. As we discussed the decline of Berlin as a liveable city, while waiting for the bill, I suddenly realised I had not driven to the rendezvous, but cycled, fatally disqualifying my offer of a ride to the train station.

My mental miscalculation had cost my new friend vital minutes. Taxis would now have to be ordered, after all.

The mood changed. My offer to pay the paltry bill was flatly declined.

A cold sweat descended the back of my neck like a cyclist down Mount Ventoux.

Still, there was room to recover, and seeing as the meeting had gone so well up to the lift/no-lift debacle, I figured what better way to celebrate the foundation of a new friendship than with an actual grown-up hug.

A statement of intent. A deposit in the joint account of acquaintance the two of us had just opened together.

What happened next was catastrophic. I am tall. My friend is small. Realising my attempt to hug goodbye was misguided, I withdrew mid-movement, clumsily offering a hand to shake instead.

Friend Eile had already reacted, however, and tried to overcompensate with a hug of her own, which resulted in her headbutting by retreating torso like I was Marco Materazzi, and she Zinedine Zidane.

We left, promising to keep in touch, but knowing we never will.

Later, our mutual friend reached out to ask how it went. “I think I’m too old for new friends,” I thought, but did not say.

Feeling doomed, I told her Homer was full of shit.