Where the old rub shoulders with the young

One of the side-effects of growing older having spent your entire working life with the same company, is that you're invited to a rapidly increasing series of retirement parties for friends.

Tonight saw one such event, for a guy I've known on-and-off for 30+ years, and actively worked with for about a year of that. For some unknown reason he chose what must be one of the trendiest bars in Manchester to hold it in: Dukes.

"Do you hang out here often, Iain?" I asked him, astonished.
"No, I didn't even know it existed."

Turns out he picked it on recommendation from a (much younger) colleague.

The terrace was packed when I arrived, with easily two hundred bright young things occupying every chrome table and chair, lapping up the evening sunshine along with their vodka shots, Archers, or whatever it is twenty-somethings drink these days. I found Iain inside, sat at a tall table with three others, already half-way through their first drink of the evening. I ordered a drink for myself and joined the lively conversation.

Occasionally a full-breasted, short-skirted, tanned and lovely young lady would stroll past, dressed for the catwalk and, as if all the oxygen had temporarily been sucked from the room, conversation at the table would die. Apart from the occasional sotto voce delivery of an appreciative "fucking hell" or "Jesus" from one of the others, obviously. It must be very disconcerting - not to say irritating - when you're a full-breasted, short-skirted, tanned and lovely young lady, to be stared at by a small group of grey-haired, saggy-bellied, wrinkled old men dressed in something from south Manchester's finest charity shops. High fashion we ain't.

Evidence of the credit crunch would have been hard for even Sherlock Holmes to find. As I was driving I stayed on pints of cranberry and soda (£3 a pop) and the bar remained three deep from when I arrived shortly after 6 to when we sat down for a meal around 7.30.

For yes, much to my surprise, Iain had booked a table. In the end a dozen of us stayed for dinner. Dukes isn't exactly haute cuisine, but that's not what it's about, nor is it what we were after. Just a plate of pleasant chow, a few drinks, and an evening reminiscing. Retelling the war stories of a working life in the computer industry. Remembering those ridiculously huge 8 megabyte exchangeable disks, PIDs, green screens and early mobile solutions. And of course the inevitable polite inquiries about his plans for the future. Gardening and converting all the home PCs to Linux, apparently. Mad fool. Absolutely and emphatically no intention to come back next Monday as a consultant. Which is, as it happens, quite rare. There's something about the computer industry that makes it hard for some people to let go.

Not me. When my time comes, you won't see me for dust.