We Might be Friendly
Seaside reflections on a sunny day
Hello again,
Edited to Add: After posting this, I recorded a video of me reading it, so you might enjoy that. One way to find out:
https://open.substack.com/pub/vipreaders/p/reading-we-might-be-friendly
The sun shone in an almost cloudless blue sky. The Dawlish food festival was in full swing, the vendors doing good trade on their stalls, slaving over their stoves and ovens. I spotted one team of cooks preparing pizzas in a kind of mobile kitchen.
Poor planning, I thought, to set up a business that mainly operates in the warmer months and involves shutting yourself and your hapless co-workers into a metal box that also contains a wood-fired oven. But the ruddy-cheeked pizzerinos and pizzerinas (words I've just invented and intend to bring into general circulation) were working hard and seemed in good spirits. Maybe they were making good dough. [Terrible joke - Ed]
Mrs C and I joined a queue beside a stall selling African inspired dishes, choosing it mainly because of the spicy scents emanating from within. After a moment of confusion, we asked the young woman in front of us if she was in the queue. She assured us she was. But more confusion ensued as people either moved forward or didn't, so we asked the middle-aged man in front of the young woman if he was in the queue. And received no response.
We asked again, and the middle-aged man seemed surprised at being addressed. Was he in the queue?
‘No,’ he said as if mildly offended, and he moved away.
We shared a laugh with the young woman, and she apologised for having led us astray.
‘But this is what we do in this country,’ I told her. ‘We see someone standing around and we form a queue.’
She agreed, adding, ‘It's our culture.’
A nice way of expressing it, I thought.
Later, we watched a band playing rock and roll classics, and once again, I was struck by the timid reaction of the audience. At one time, people went wild for this music. It was a sunny day. We were by the sea. The music was free. But I was hardpressed to see so much as a foot tapping along. Ah well.
People in England rarely talk to each other while waiting for buses or, indeed, for anything else. The usual routine is to pretend the other people do not exist. But when we break out of that habit, it's often a pleasant experience.
Once, in Exeter, waiting for a park-and-ride bus that had apparently gone missing or been swallowed by an alien spacecraft, a mother in the queue told us she’d brought her little boy along especially because it was to be his first trip on a bus. The poor kid was looking forward to it, but as far as I know, that bus never did turn up. It was a bitterly cold day, and my feet were getting numb, so we went back to the car and drove into the city, which was easier, quicker and cheaper. I believe that's what they call a reverse incentive. Adding to the congestion and traffic fumes was actually the most sensible option. Madness.
But I still remember our conversation with that family, and I hope the youngster eventually got the bus ride he was hoping for. We may not have achieved our initial goal, but I'm glad to have been there that day to share the moment.
It's a shame we're not a more outgoing people, but our reticence isn't an invariable rule. I have friends and relatives who are adept at striking up conversations with everyone they meet. How they do it, I'll never know.
I like talk to people serving me in shops and cafes and so on, mainly because I want to acknowledge the fact that we're all human beings. But beyond all the usual politeness, the best I can manage is something along the lines of, “Have you been busy?” or “You look busy.”
Of course, I might comment on the weather, and when I receive food, I say something like “This looks delicious/perfect/wonderful.” But it's not exactly groundbreaking stuff, and David Sedaris has nothing to worry about when it comes to the icebreaker stakes.
In one of his recent readings on BBC Radio 4, Mr Sedaris flaunts a favourite opening line: “How long have you known your dentist?” I could never say that to a stranger. But I do my best—that counts for something—and at least I'm not rude.
I was at a motorway service station recently, waiting to order an overpriced coffee. In front of me in the queue were two men. I try not pass lazy snap judgements on people, but if you'd asked me to sum up the two chaps, I would've said they looked a little rough around the edges. But when it was their turn to be served, the men were unfailingly polite. Every request ended in ‘please’ and they said ‘thank you’ in all the appropriate places with a few extra thrown in for good measure.
I wanted to tell the men how genuinely impressed I was with their manners; it was a delight to listen to them. But of course, we were in the same queue, so we couldn't possibly converse.
Where does all this social awkwardness come from? Okay, we live on an island, but it's not like we're crowded cheek by jowl (whatever the manically xenophobic populist press and politicians may tell you).
I can walk in the UK for hours and see no one. It’s possible that, by common consent, people see me coming and hide until the danger has passed, but I don’t think so.
As the young woman at Dawlish said to me, it’s our culture. And that gives me hope because cultures change. I sometimes remember with an edge of disbelief, the people I used to see smoking. Office workers, drivers, passengers in trains and planes, even doctors and nurses, all puffing merrily despite being wracked by occasional bouts of uncontrollable coughing.
In a trip to the cinema, the beams from the projector made flickering light shows in the smoke-filled air over our heads. There were sudden flares of light amongst the audience as smokers struck matches, and on the back of the seats were curved metal ashtrays.
I’m glad to see the back of those days. Change isn’t always for the best, but it often is. We can all do something to make the world a better place, and I like to think that, one day, we can step forward to a friendlier future.
Even if there’s a queue.