The Fiftysomethings are nonplussed. "X Factor!" snorts the man with no hair. "What rubbish," sneers the fattest Fiftysomething, who comes back from the bar with the beer. "And what about Iraq? Chilcot? Blair?" asks the woman in the beret.
The Fiftysomethings are political and they are split into three couples. The men sit down on one side of the table, the women on the other. The women are smart, chic even, although they wear walking boots, and their faces are pink from the cold air. The men are scruffy and rounded, their features sinking in on themselves as they look around the pub suspiciously.
These Fiftysomethings organise outings as they once organised demos, and although they carry no banners, they come fresh from a confrontation with the park, where trees have been encircled, bushes pushed back and grass charged. Defeated once again - by the elements this time, rather than agents of the state - the Fiftysomethings have been forced into a pub by the park, where the bourgeoisie drink heavily around an open fire and where the Mail on Sunday is scattered in warning.
The rain has also forced a party of young people inside and they take the table next to the Fiftysomethings. Apart from
a scattering of stubble, there is little difference between the girls and the boys; all wear plimsolls, tight jeans, untucked plaid shirts and Russian hats with furry earflaps. They carry bottles of daftly priced foreign lager and call to each other happily in accents they have borrowed from poor people.
The Fiftysomethings can't hear very well. The Clash long ago did for their cochleas. So they sit in silence around Sunday dinners that deliberately corral the worst elements of our national cuisine on to one plate. Two of the women don't eat meat and have chosen a molten vegetable gratin that sticks to their chins. The men, who were either not taught to eat properly or have abandoned the practice, ignore their knives and handle their forks as if alien equipment. Chewing open-mouthed, they prong grey, overcooked meat, spoon mashed potatoes they have soaked with gravy and stab at Yorkshire puddings that sag under their own weight. They leave the vegetables.
The young people don't talk about politics or war. They talk about pop and sex and clothes. About things they have bought and other things they are going to buy. As the Fiftysomethings listen, disapproval joins the gravy and cheese smeared across their faces and their backs stiffen. Lunch has become a confrontation and they now talk loudly about "uncommitted kids", about "our days" and the commitment of politically organised youth. They talk about punk, feminism and socialism.
The Fiftysomethings look at the young people on the next table and shake their heads. "Thatcher's children," says the woman in the beret. "Yes," says another Fiftysomething woman, who has been quiet until now. “I hope the bitch dies soon." The table goes quiet, aware that such sentiments are unbecoming - but realising also, perhaps, that unlike their youth, Margaret Thatcher will never go away. They are stuck with her, eternal, indestructible, ever-present.
In the silence that follows, the young people's laughter rings around the table.
Hunter Davies returns in two weeks
