I haven't seen my best friend Jack since 1973.

I don't know why this is. Maybe he emigrated to Australia and forgot to tell me. Or maybe he's still around and thinks I'VE emigrated to Australia and forgotten to tell HIM.

"All I know is that we've lost touch and I'd dearly love to see him again," I commented to this stranger in the pub the other evening.

The stranger said nothing.

"So what do you think I should do?" I prompted him.

The stranger thought for a moment before giving me his considered response. "I think you should push off and let me enjoy my pint in peace," he said.

That's the trouble with strangers. You never know how they're going to react when you initiate a conversation.

There was another stranger at the other end of the bar so I toddled off to talk to him.

"I'm really missing my best friend Jack," I said.

"I know you are," the stranger sighed. "You haven't seen him for 26 years and you're wondering if he's migrated to Melbourne or settled in Sydney."

"My goodness!" I cried. "How on earth did you know that?"

The stranger sighed again. "Because you keep going on about it to mum and it's driving her potty."

"Son?" I said. "Is it really you? How come I didn't recognise you?"

"Because we never see each other these days, dad. When you're in the house I'm out and vice versa. It just so happens that our paths have crossed this evening and we're both in the pub at the same time."

I glanced nervously around the saloon bar. "If I were you, son, I'd vacate the premises pretty swiftly. The authorities frown on under-age drinking."

My son sighed yet again. "But I'm 27, dad."

I counted up on my fingers. "So you are, son. And here's me thinking you were only 14. The years certainly fly by."

I caught the barmaid's attention. "Another shandy for me and a fizzy orange for the boy."

"Aw, dad, what's wrong with a pint of bitter?"

"You're right, son. Make that a pint of bitter for me and a fizzy orange for the boy. And stick a cherry in the orange juice, will you. You're only young once."

We sipped our drinks in silence for a while. Then...

"What do you mean I'm driving your mother potty? What has she been saying to you?"

My son sighed for the fourth time. "It's like this, dad. Mum reckons you're now hurtling down the final slippery slope towards the male menopause, and you're fixated with your best friend Jack in a feeble attempt to capture your lost youth.

"Anyway, whatever the mitigating circumstances, it's doing mum's head in."

My eyes filled with tears of nostalgia. "Jack and I were so close at school. We were inseparable. In fact, we were so close everyone called us The Three Musketeers."

"Three?" my son asked. "Who was the third?"

"There wasn't a third," I said. "But who's ever heard of The Two Musketeers?"

My son adopted a pained expression.

"What's up, lad?" I asked. "Are the bubbles from your fizzy orange getting up your nose?"

"Er...I think I'd better be getting off now, dad."

"Nice one, son," I said, slapping him on the back.

"Huh?"

"You're obviously leaving now in order to finish off your school homework. It makes me proud to see such dedication and enthusiasm."

"But, dad, I left school years ago. I have a good job now."

I chuckled. "It's a good job you're not like me and my best friend Jack. We used to do our homework on the bus going to school the next morning.

"Many a day we missed our stop because we were struggling to conjugate French verbs."

My son started to twitch.

"Did I ever tell you, son, that Jack and I were so close that everyone called us The Magnificent Seven."

"Seven?" my son asked. "Who were the other...oh, never mind, dad."

"Come to think of it," I commented to my wife when I got home, "There were a Magnificent Two. It was the title of a Morecambe and Wise movie. I went to see it with Jack."

My wife grabbed me by the lapels. "Enough!" she cried. "I don't want to hear about your best friend Jack ever again. Jack, Jack, Jack...that's all I get from you these days. It's driving me nuts!"

Shaken by my wife's outburst, I reacted as any self-respecting husband would. I sulked for the rest of the evening.

After a restless night's sleep, during which I dreamed about Jack, I came downstairs prepared to continue sulking.

But I hadn't bargained on the caprice of women for my wife actually brought up the forbidden subject over breakfast.

"Look," she said, passing me the marmalade. "With your years of experience as an investigative journalist, surely you could channel your resources to trace the whereabouts of your best friend. Use your powers of research and your intellectual prowess to set the wheels in motion."

"You're right!" I declared, slamming down my toast.

"So what are you going to do?" my wife asked.

"I'm going to phone Australia to see if Jack's there!"

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.