Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play by Danny Wallace Page A

said.
    And I nodded, and we hugged, because we
would
see each other later. We could see each other whenever we
liked,
now.
    And then Anil and I jumped into the sparkling, revved-up Mini and set off.
    I was excited.
    We were going to find Simon Gibson.
    In the late 1980s in middle England, the Toby Carvery was the height of exclusive dining. Not only did they offer quality
     meats at reasonable prices, but if you were a dedicated visitor to “Tobies,” you could also buy individual Toby jugs—mass-manufactured
     clay jugs in the shape of a grotesque man’s face, which, if you had enough of them on your mantelpiece, could instantly knock
     thousands of pounds off the value of your property. Apart from the jugs, grown-ups would unfailingly make reference to two
     things when they talked of a Toby—the fact that you couldn’t go back for second helpings, and the invariably excellent parking
     facilities.
    And now I was returning to that cozy, clay world.
    The sky was darkened by storm clouds as we pulled off the motorway to arrive in Colwick, a few miles to the north of Nottingham,
     along the River Trent. Anil and I had been swapping anecdotes about growing up, catching up on the things we didn’t know about
     each other. We would’ve continued… until we saw it, there, before us… the mighty Toby Carvery, Colwick. It ruled the area,
     like a castle on a mountain: a powerful brick square standing guard over the roundabout and the dual carriageway beyond.
    Inside, it was glowing. It looked busy in there. Weeks later, I would find the following on the Internet. A review from a
     regular punter, keen to spread the word of Colwick’s number one Toby Carvery:
    I have been to this establishment twice. On both occasions I took a disabled person in a wheelchair. I had the chicken and
     bacon wraps both times and so did he. They were cooked to perfection. You can help yourself to as much veg and potatoes as
     you want but you can’t go back for seconds which is a disadvantage.
    It also has a decent-sized car park.
    I hope that helps.
    “Shall we go in?” I said.
    “Definitely,” said Anil.
    We parked the Mini in the excellent car park and approached the front entrance. The rain had started now, and the Toby Carvery
     took on the kind of warm and inviting glow you see in films set in Victorian times. Through the windows you could see families
     enjoying themselves—a wooden bar, and red carpets and attentive staff running to and fro.
    We were welcomed by a girl in official Toby Carvery clothing.
    “I demand to see the manager!” I said, which I had intended to say in an amusing voice but which had seemed to terrify the
     girl.
    “Oh! Um…”
    “We’re old friends,” explained Anil, and I realized I should have said that. But it didn’t matter, because there, just by
     the bar, I saw him…
    “There he is!” I said. “There’s
Simon Gibson!
”
    Simon Gibson had certainly grown up. In the old days, he’d been the scruffy kid at school, with a cheeky face and a fringe
     that always needed an inch taken off it. He’d worn the same tracksuit every day of the summer holidays and even though he
     had sneakers, he’d always worn his school shoes, until the soles had been peeling off, like in a Charlie Chaplin film. His
     brother had called him fat—my mum had reassured him he was “pleasantly plump,” which I think in the end might have done more
     damage—but the puppy fat had gone, and now here he was—smart. Suited. In control. He was clearly sorting out some kind of
     problem, but doing it with a smile. He glanced over at us, didn’t quite take us in, and then looked again, harder.
    “I don’t believe it!” he said.
    Simon was rightly proud of his work at the Toby.
    “We run a tight ship here,” he said. “We have a laugh, but we get the work done, which is important.”
    We were sitting at the special table in the corner—the one only members of the staff get to sit at.
    “We take a hefty sum