Despite being reasonably articulate and confident, Jo Bunting has never got the hang of the social intercourse that is "small talk"...
My nightmare scenario became reality recently at a colleague’s 40th birthday party (which turned out to be canapes in the conservatory and home by 9.30 pm) when
the hostess interrupted a lively conversation between four people, to introduce me with the words "This is Jo Bunting. She’s hilarious".
She then wandered off, leaving me with four pairs of eyes turned expectantly in my direction.
I’d picked up a few handy hints from my hairdresser, who seems adept at small talk, but "Are you going on holiday this year" seemed a bit of an abrupt opening gambit
, and "Are you on your lunch hour?" was obviously inappropriate, so I plumped for the always reliable "What do you do?" Quite quickly I became embroiled in a conversation with a woman who designed her own jewellery. How many supplementary questions can one come up with, for goodness sake? What I really wanted to say was "Gosh – how boring. I think I’ll go off and find someone less dull", but in fact heard myself asking "What materials do you tend to use?" "And the earrings – are they the dangly kind?"
Another mainstay is, of course, the property market.
Various conversations on this theme were up and running in the room, one man in a shirt I can only describe as "cheerful" could be heard declaring "I only bought the cottage last year and it’s quadrupled in value – and that’s before I’ve even put the dormer windows in!"
The extraordinary thing was that the cluster of guests gathered around him seemed – and I know this is hard to believe – interested in this nugget of information. While my reaction is "Who cares? I don’t know who you are – I’ll hopefully never see you again – and the progress of your renovation work in North Norfolk leaves me cold."
Are these people genuinely intrigued by the subject matter – or are they simply better actors than I am?
We’re approaching the time of year when a plethora of evening classes begins – offering a vast range of skills all of which can be learnt on Wednesday evenings in a scout hut. Sugarcraft for beginners, Spanish for intermediates. So why not "Small Talk for Incompetants"? On the other hand, imagine the first meeting – if the tutor turned up late and we all had to stand around and…make small talk.
I’ve only recently recovered from my last disastrous social outing. A wedding anniversary gathering where the only people I knew were the couple themselves.
The first thing to go slightly awry – due to the fact that I didn’t even know them as well as I had perhaps thought – was that I brought a joke present along of some his and hers denture cream. You’ll probably be wondering why, and to be honest, now I’m saying it, I’m a bit at a loss to give you an answer. An amusing reference to them growing old together, possibly. Anyway, suffice to say it was a mistake, and didn’t blend in too well with the Japanese style flower vases and tasteful boxes of Belgian chocolates everyone else had bought.
At which point my friend, who’d clearly been at the Chilean chardonnay, declared her intention of introducing me to people.
"No, really, Jane – I’m more than happy here by the buffet – you know me!" Clearly about as well as I knew her – because she insisted, and started parading me around the garden. "Frances! Can I introduce you to Jo Bunting? She doesn’t know anybody!"
"Alison – this is Jo Bunting – all the way from Norfolk – doesn’t know anyone at all!"
Difficult to know quite what expression to assume when being introduced like this – contrite? Ashamed? Defiant?
At least she didn’t announce that I was hilarious, and then go on to describe the completely unamusing gift she’d just had to unwrap.
Interestingly, children don’t understand the concept of small talk, and I say good for them. Sometimes they come out with comments which could be construed as rude, and for which they get told off by embarrassed parents, but of course they’re just being honest. If children are bored they say so, don’t they? Not us grown ups, standing around with paper plates soggy under the weight of a homemade coleslaw, animatedly discussing the weather.
My nephew came round to my new house the other day and said it looked like a garden shed. Straight to the point – no messing around – and best of all, no boring old chat about what improvements I’d got planned, or whether it was a good investment. He then expanded on the subject: "Auntie Jo – if your house blew up – would you mind? Or would you buy a better one?"
I did jab him unnecessarily hard as I squeezed past into the kitchen, I have to admit.
