The Old Gang

"Well, I suppose we all like to think something like that, from time to time," he said. "But, on the whole, none of us around here have much time for that sort of thing. Not as a rule, anyway." He sighed, got to his feet slowly and picked up his glass, looking around at each of the others.

Norman nodded, but the others, in various ways, indicated that they were, for the time being at least, all right as far as refills were concerned anyway. They all glanced around at each other, sighing and shrugging.

Arnold, who, for some reason, everyone deferred to, usually had the last word in each situation they found themselves, for one reason or another, involved in. He was not their leader, they were not a gang. All that kind of stuff was long in the past of their lives. But, having assured everyone they were a bunch of blokes, mates even, who occasionally went out drinking, or fishing, or just anything, together quite often, or 'all the bloody time' as Norman's wife often insisted, was neither here nor there.