Misadventures in conversation (#1 in a potentially infinite series)
If I tried to list every social faux pas I made I would probably break the internet, but here are a couple of choice recent ones.
The scene: a pub somewhere off Tottenham Court Road, last weekend. Went along with my friend Dave to meet some of his old uni coursemates. It was established that they were in their early 30s - although one of them was a super-trendy gay guy who despite being 31 looked about 15, and was bragging light-heartedly about how he always got asked for ID. (Although I bet he must need like 5 hours to get ready for a night out so hah! - the joke’s on him.)
Another guy had brought along his new ladyfriend, with whom I’d been attempting to converse. Bear in mind that she was some kind of frustrated singer/songwriter type who was on the fringes of the music scene, and that she was going through a messy divorce process from a guy who’d apparently treated her like shit. Anyway, the above was her cue to chuck out, missile-like, that most loaded of questions - “How old do you think I am?” Crucially, I thought too much about my answer. Having considered the average age of everyone else at the table, and with her not looking especially younger, I advanced what I thought was a reasonable hypothesis of very early thirties. (Note the “very”, which I thought would temper the blow if she turned out to be, say, 33.)
Let’s say she was nonplussed by my response. Er... ok, late 20s? “Keep going in that direction,” offered her fella. If there is such a thing as literally squirming in your seat, I was doing so at this point. “Actually I’m 38, but most people say I look 25,” she said, finally putting me out of my misery. Now, with all the will in the world, there is no way in hell that this lady looked a day under 30. All those people who said 25 clearly had their pants on fire. Come on, I thought, you’re 38 - I’ve put you a good six or seven years younger than you actually are! Too late, I’d learned the lesson that whenever you’re asked that question, take what you think is their real age and lop at least 10 years off, especially if they’re not exactly in a tip-top mental state at the time. If ever I needed a microcosm of why I’m not very good at chatting up women, this was it. Being truthful is just dangerous.
The other example was in a crowded kitchen at work this week. I’d poured some tea, but someone else had just used the last of the semi-skimmed. For some reason, another lady (who comes across as perfectly nice, and somewhat classy) had poured some milk out into a cup for herself, and offered me some of that. Somehow I hadn’t realised straightaway that it was hers, and made some ridiculous remark about not trusting said milk. I meant that it may have been sitting in that cup on the worktop for some time and therefore could have gone off, but I may as well have said “Hmm, not sure if I want your skanky milk, bitch!” Still, she gave me some anyway. Maybe “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen” should be my new motto...
The scene: a pub somewhere off Tottenham Court Road, last weekend. Went along with my friend Dave to meet some of his old uni coursemates. It was established that they were in their early 30s - although one of them was a super-trendy gay guy who despite being 31 looked about 15, and was bragging light-heartedly about how he always got asked for ID. (Although I bet he must need like 5 hours to get ready for a night out so hah! - the joke’s on him.)
Another guy had brought along his new ladyfriend, with whom I’d been attempting to converse. Bear in mind that she was some kind of frustrated singer/songwriter type who was on the fringes of the music scene, and that she was going through a messy divorce process from a guy who’d apparently treated her like shit. Anyway, the above was her cue to chuck out, missile-like, that most loaded of questions - “How old do you think I am?” Crucially, I thought too much about my answer. Having considered the average age of everyone else at the table, and with her not looking especially younger, I advanced what I thought was a reasonable hypothesis of very early thirties. (Note the “very”, which I thought would temper the blow if she turned out to be, say, 33.)
Let’s say she was nonplussed by my response. Er... ok, late 20s? “Keep going in that direction,” offered her fella. If there is such a thing as literally squirming in your seat, I was doing so at this point. “Actually I’m 38, but most people say I look 25,” she said, finally putting me out of my misery. Now, with all the will in the world, there is no way in hell that this lady looked a day under 30. All those people who said 25 clearly had their pants on fire. Come on, I thought, you’re 38 - I’ve put you a good six or seven years younger than you actually are! Too late, I’d learned the lesson that whenever you’re asked that question, take what you think is their real age and lop at least 10 years off, especially if they’re not exactly in a tip-top mental state at the time. If ever I needed a microcosm of why I’m not very good at chatting up women, this was it. Being truthful is just dangerous.
The other example was in a crowded kitchen at work this week. I’d poured some tea, but someone else had just used the last of the semi-skimmed. For some reason, another lady (who comes across as perfectly nice, and somewhat classy) had poured some milk out into a cup for herself, and offered me some of that. Somehow I hadn’t realised straightaway that it was hers, and made some ridiculous remark about not trusting said milk. I meant that it may have been sitting in that cup on the worktop for some time and therefore could have gone off, but I may as well have said “Hmm, not sure if I want your skanky milk, bitch!” Still, she gave me some anyway. Maybe “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen” should be my new motto...
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