Pet Hates: London Transport

Posted on May 8, 2011 by Scribe Doll

No. 1

On the Tube, men who mark their territory by spreading their knees so wide, you have less room in the seat next to them, than entitled to by train designer.

Solution:

Wait for the train to brake and, at the appropriate moment, allow yourself to be thrown as violently as possible against their offending thigh, with a well-timed high heel suddenly digging into their foot.  At the outrage on their face, smile naively with an imperceptible eyelash flutter and say, as loudly as possible, “Oh, sorry.”

The invader will retreat into his portion of the seat.  Works every time.

No. 2

Women with long hair, standing with their backs to you on a crowded train, who keep tossing their heads, whipping your mouth with their mane.

Solution:

Make a show of spitting and coughing out the offending split ends, then demonstratively wipe your lips with the back of your hand. Works 50% of the time.

No. 3

Individuals sitting next to you who wear enough perfume to fill the auditorium of the Royal Opera House.

Solution:

Start doing Irish setter impersonations by sticking your nose up in the air and sniffing in air with a swishing sound effect.  Follow up immediately with a couple of sneezes and a throaty cough. Do NOT look at the person at any time during this procedure.  We are still awaiting clinical test results on this one.

No. 4

iPods.

Dream solution:

A quick snip at the white earphone wires, with a pair of sharp, gleaming manicure scissors.

Realistic solution:

Start staring intently at their ear next to you.  Try and keep it up without blinking for as long as possible.  Success rate resulting in said creatures turning down the volume: 30%

No.5

City men discussing stocks and shares with their Hong Kong office on their mobiles at 7.30 a.m. GMT within earshot of the entire carriage.  This experiment is particularly successful if the finance geek in question is conducting his business transactions in a foreign language you just happen to speak.

Solution:

Listen attentively to the conversation whilst pretending to be dozing.  At the appropriate moment “wake up” and shout at the businessman in the same foreign language, “No! No! No! Tell him NOT to buy those shares! Bad idea!” I only tried this one once, but the objective was achieved.  Within seconds, the City man dropped the tone of his voice to say, “I’ll call you later”, then promptly disconnected the call and replaced the phone into his breast pocket, finally enabling me to catch up on my sleep.

No. 6

Women talking on their mobiles for an entire bus ride, discussing mind witheringly boring subjects like shopping, boyfriends or holidays.  Why does no one ever hold an interesting conversation on the bus?

Solution:

Still working on that one.

No. 7

Women who get on the bus, late at night, and who think it is ever so cute to toss their hair and giggle at the driver while foraging at the bottom of their oversized bags (what can they possibly be carrying? Chick lit volumes are not that large) for their Oyster cards, holding  up the bus for everyone else who wants to get home.

Solution:

Train the driver to say, “Get your act together, love, or get off the bus.”

Or, heck, just ban all women under thirty from public transport.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Pet Hates | 9 Comments

Odds & Ends: Isn’t It Romantic?

Posted on May 1, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Two days ago, the nation was swept into a pink fluffy cloud of romance.  The Government encouraged this mass adoration of somebody else’s wedding by decreeing a Bank Holiday.  The country was momentarily distracted from economic problems, Britain’s increasing involvement in foreign military actions, unemployment, the gradual axing of the NHS and the chipping away at Legal Aid.  The British who, only a few weeks ago, marched in protest against the Government’s cuts and austerity measures, were blinded by a puff of romance to the detail that this wedding cost £7 billion in security alone, and that this bill is being settled by the Taxpayer.  Not only did they not raise objections to this expense, they embraced it in a mass display of buntings, plastic Union Jacks, street parties, and the British trademark that is the wearing of monstrous ladies’ hats.  Panem et circenses.  At least, our Government does not throw people to the lions to entertain the crowds and, I must admit, the atmosphere in London on Friday was full of joy and goodwill.

What struck me was that it was not just the British who celebrated the wedding of the now Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (why Cambridge?) but hoards of foreigners.  Not just US Americans and Australians in sleeping bags outside Westminster Abbey, but television viewers abroad.  Yesterday’s edition of El Pais had no fewer than five pages dedicated to the Royal wedding.  My first question is, what makes British Royalty so noteworthy? When a Scandinavian Royal gets married, there is nothing but a small picture in the Saturday glossy supplement.  My second question is, why do people get so wrapped up in the wedding of a couple nobody actually knows personally, and has no chance of ever even meeting?

Is it a way of living one’s own unfulfilled romances through someone else’s? Is it safer to show excitement at someone else’s romance because we live in a society where it is not acceptable to be too thrilled at our own?

No, being truly romantic is not acceptable.  Red roses on Valentine’s Day are institutional, but if an unknown man comes up to you in the street, tells you your eyes sparkle like stars, and hands you a flower, the helpful people around you will call it ‘cheesy’, ‘naff’, ‘silly’, ‘weird’ or ‘over the top’.  They will laugh and ridicule.  These same people will shriek with pleasure when a couple they have never met kiss on the balcony of Buckingham Palace.

What is romantic about red roses?  They are ordinary.  Everyone gives them on Valentine’s Day.  Dinner date in a candlelit restaurant? Mundane.  Text message? Positively vulgar.  Being romantic is being and doing the extraordinary, and that is what people shy away from.  They also shrink from taking that leap forward which exposes them, and from which there is no turning back.  Hiding behind a pre-printed card or a tradition followed by millions does not put you at risk.  You can always blame it on social conventions.  Once again, it comes down to the courage to be different, to expose your heart in all its vulnerability without stopping to think – even for a second – of the consequences.  Without any precautions against the possibility of someone kicking you or, worse, ignoring you.  A totally uncalculated gamble that puts everything on the line.  A sacrifice.  A unique gesture to acknowledge and honour the uniqueness of the other person.

We go all gooey over the kitsch of Hollywood manufactured romance because it is coated in comedy.  We read and marvel at Shakespeare’s sonnets as emotions from another era.  We watch Gene Kelly tap on rollerskates as something unrealistic.  We read about Courtly Love as legend.  It does not have to be so.  Truly romantic gestures are like explosions of sunlight, like fireworks.  They can be blinding and overwhelming… So not for the faint hearted.  Only like can appreciate like.

Taking a job just so as to be near someone; not thinking about whether the job pays enough.  Learning a new language just so you can communicate with someone; not stopping to think about the time it will take to learn to converse with ease.  Travelling across a continent to tell someone that you are in love with him or her; not considering the expense of the trip, or that you might realise, within minutes of arriving, that you have misread the signals.  Taking a leap into the unknown with the absolute certainty that you will be carried to safety on the wings of love… Even if, sometimes, you land flat on your posterior.

It takes guts to be truly romantic.

I hope you all remembered to wash your hands and face with dew, this morning.  ‘Tis said it invites love for the year to come.

Happy May Day!

Scribe Doll

Posted in Odds & Ends | 5 Comments

Pet Hates: Doctors – the New Priests

Posted on April 24, 2011 by Scribe Doll

First, there were the priests.  Now, there are the doctors.  Has anyone else noticed the similarities between those two?

Along with lawyers, they have always formed the most loathed and derided professional triumvirate in literature and the theatre.  Anton Chekhov, himself a physician, said, “Doctors are the same as lawyers; the only difference is that lawyers merely rob you, whereas doctors rob you and kill you too.”

Anyone who has spent any time in Italy will have come across the numerous witticisms about the Church and its ministers. Boccaccio portrays clerics as lecherous, wealth-chasing gluttons.  In Assisi, gift shops are littered with ceramic figurines of pot-bellied Franciscans and Dominicans downing tankards of beer or stuffing their faces with food.  In Rome, locals will let you in on the fact that the Vatican car number plate S.C.V. (Stato Città del Vaticano = State City of the Vatican) actually stands for Se Cristo Vedesse! (=  If Christ could only see!)

An ancient Roman proverb warns that “The doctor is to be feared more than the disease.”  In the Commedia dell’Arte, the Plague Doctor is a figure of fun.  Molière, a true life hypochondriac and, therefore, experienced patient, observed that “Doctors pour drugs of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, into patients of whom they know nothing.”  Napoleon Bonaparte said, “Doctors will have more lives to answer for in the next world than even we generals.”

An obvious practice doctors and priests have shared over the centuries, is using multi-syllabic phrases – often in Latin or Greek – to dumbfound and scare into submission ignorant folk in order to cover up their own ignorance or their sometimes their less than altruistic motives.  Both brandish language as a tool of power.  By using terminology the punters do not understand, they place themselves outside the reach of contradiction, and become inaccessible to a fair fight.  It is impossible to challenge someone who is speaking to you in a foreign tongue.  Prior to the Reformation, when mass was exclusively in Latin, hoards of people said “Amen” to precepts they did not actually understand.  Just as billions of people now swallow tons of tablets without knowing what they are actually made of.  It is what we call an act of faith, “faith” being also something we are supposed to have in our doctors.

Both medicine and the priesthood are professions whose authority has always been feared for the power it possesses over us (the priest, over our souls; the doctor, over our bodies), rather than genuinely respected.  Both demand that their orders (“doctor’s ‘orders'”, like in the military) be obeyed to the letter, without deviation or questioning, on pain of losing that without which you could not be human – your soul or your body.  How many times have we heard people say, “The doctor says I can’t”? Millennia of Greek philosophy, Latin thinkers, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, the Sturm und Drang and Darwin, and we still lack the most essential of freedoms – the freedom of thought.  Instead, we delegate the responsibility for our thinking to others.  “The doctor say I can’t” instead of “I can’t because it make sense to me that I shouldn’t.”

Doctors enjoy their authority because we concede it to them so readily.  That is evident by the ruffled and peeved reaction you get from a doctor when you query or contradict him or her.  They are clearly not used to being queried or contradicted, and the shock of it puzzles and disconcerts them.

Both professions have a strict hierarchy.  Wherever they go, the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury are accompanied by a retinue.  When visiting the hospital wards, the Consultant travels with a court of junior doctors ready to push you back if you attempt to address the Consultant directly.

As children, we were told by vicars, priests and nuns to be as good as the Child Jesus.  The same vicars, priests and nuns told us that Jesus was the Son of God.  I figured that, my father being a man, I lacked that inborn advantage, that head start to be as good as the Child Jesus.  So how could I possibly even try? When I was a child, I asked the school chaplain.  He frowned and said faith was a mystery.

As an adult, I asked several doctors why a part of my body was engaged in sabotage activity.  They frowned and said, “It’s difficult to explain.”

Nicolas Boileu was unequivocal: “Ce qui se conçoit bien s’énonce clairement”.  In other words, if it is clear in your mind, then you can explain it clearly.

The last thing I wish, is to offend in any way all those who owe their health and even their lives to a doctor.  I respect their choice and their experience.  I, on the other hand, am alive and in relatively good health in spite of a few.

My principal disagreement with the medical profession is on a matter of focus.  Ashley Montagu phrases it perfectly: “The doctor has been taught to be interested not in health but in disease.  What the public are taught is that health is the cure for disease.”

The doctor’s focus is hardly ever on the building, but on the destroying.  Disinfecting.  Cutting out.  Removing.  Taking out.  Killing.  Not Healing, Building up, Creating, Empowering.  Doctors tell us that we live in a dangerous world where mutant viruses and hostile bacteria are lurking behind every corner, ready to attack us.  They tell us a that the organs in our body are time bombs ready to blow up any minute.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

Another proverb, this time from China: “The superior doctor prevents sickness; the mediocre doctor attends to impending sickness: the inferior doctor treats actual sickness.”  It reminds me of a joke on a ceramic plate I once saw in Rome.  “When you’re ill, go to the doctor and pay him.  The man needs to make a living.  Then go to the pharmacist and buy medicines.  The man needs to make a living.  Go back home and throw everything away.  You need to stay alive.”

Some early Protestants denied the existence of Free Will.  Everything was predestined by the Grace of God.  The evils of the world were caused by the Devil.  Doctors have done away with past superstitions, and opened our eyes to the existence of the D.N.A.  So, instead of being preordained, our lives are now genetically predetermined.  The Devil has been usurped by the Genes.  It’s not my fault.  It’s my genes.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks put it exquisitely on BBC Radio 4’s Thought for the Day.  I only wish I could quote him verbatim.  When God told off Adam for eating the apple from the Tree of Knowledge, he delegated his guilt.  “It’s my wife’s fault.  She gave me the apple.”

Eve promptly passed the buck.  “It’s the serpent’s fault.  He gave me the apple.”

God glared at the serpent.  The poor animal glanced around in vain.  There was no one around for him to blame.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Pet Hates | 5 Comments

Words and Civilisation: Being Realistic

Posted on April 17, 2011 by Scribe Doll

When I first started writing this blog, and announced it to just about everyone I knew,  one of my acquaintances declared – point blank – that she would not be reading it.

“Nobody reads blogs, anymore,” she said.  “There’s too many of them.  I don’t know why you bother.”

My response was, “It’s my new project, and I’m very excited about it, so please don’t be a wet blanket.”

She reparteed, “I’m not a wet blanket – I’m being realistic!”

Have you noticed? People only ever throw that word at you when you are expressing a hope, sharing a dream,  or embarking on a new venture.  According to them, apparently,  entertaining a belief that something could be wonderful, is unrealistic.

My trusted friend, the Concise Oxford Dictionary, defines realistic as: 1. having a sensible and practical idea of what can be achieved or expected.  2. representing things in a way that is accurate and true to life.

Consequently, is it realistic to state that hopes are never met, dreams never come true, and new ventures never succeed? I think I can safely assume that every sensible thinker and life observer will agree that it is unrealistic to make such a generalisation.

Why do people feel more comfortable equating realism with pessimism than with optimism? Is it a desire to shield themselves from disappointment? Or a handy excuse for not getting out there on a limb? Going after a dream requires a leap into the unknown.  You could fall down and hurt yourself.  Ouch.  Better  stay put.  The best way to guarantee never to make mistakes, after all, is not to do anything.

In their book Remarkable Recovery, oncologists Caryle Hirshberg and Marc Ian Barasch list case studies of patients recovering from cancer without chemotherapy or radiotherapy.  They cannot explain it medically but are broad-minded enough to accept it as sometimes possible, in reality.

Is it realistic to imagine that one young man driven by despair to set himself alight could spark off civil uprisings in several neighbouring countries?

History is full of individuals who defied their peers and gave the boundaries of realism a well-deserved kick forward.  T.E. Lawrence wrote, “All men dream: but not equally.  Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act upon their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.  This I did.”

Or, in the words of Oscar Hammerstein II,

You’ve got to have a dream.

If you don’t have a dream

How you’re gonna have a dream come true?

Scribe Doll

Posted in Words and Civilisation | 2 Comments

Words and Civilisation: Yes and No

Posted on April 10, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Rule Number One to be truly English.  Banish at once the following two words from your vocabulary: ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

They are unsightly, un-English, and compromising.  They state an absolute, and that is bad-mannered.  After all, who gives you the right to dogmatise.  Also, they are risky.  You could be proved wrong and so be embarrassed.  Moreover, they force you to commit yourself, to stand up and be counted and, therefore, leave yourself wide open to attack; in a position from where it is impossible to backtrack.

Throughout History, the English have demonstrated unparalleled skills in military and diplomatic strategy.  India was not conquered by brute force but with subtle insinuation.  The Spanish Armada was defeated by ruse.  ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ are strategically unsound because they paint you into a corner, and it is always better to keep your options open.  You never know.  At some point in the future, you might change your mind and wish to escape, so better stay within easy access of the emergency exit.

You can see this strategy in action in the seemingly most anodyne daily occurrences.

You leap into the District Line carriage at Earl’s Court just as the doors are about to slide shut.  You ask, “Is this going to Wimbledon?”

Time is of the essence and, given the English talent for Economics, you expect a succinct answer.  Instead, you get, “I hope so” from one passenger, and “I think so” from another.  You are caught up between an act of faith and an intellectual assumption, when all you wanted was the resounding ‘yes’ or ‘no’ of certainty.  It is too late to act now.  The train doors are firmly closed, and you are left to pray you are on the way to Wimbledon, and not Richmond.  Your fellow passengers clearly do not care where they are going.  They just enjoy riding the London Underground.

A couple of days ago, I bought some herbs.  When I got home, I could not remember whether I had to steep them in a teapot, on simmer them in pan.  I rang the shop.  The sales assistant pondered.  “I imagine you would simmer them,” she finally said.

As politely as I could, I explained that I was not asking her to flex her creative muscles, but to provide specific instructions.  On cue, she consulted her more experienced colleague.

At the department store,  you ask if the grey chino trousers you want are available in your size.  The sales assistant “thinks” they are out of stock.  Well… Does she “think” or “know”? Does she “think” she could possibly check for sure?

I once asked a superior of mine if she had an issue with the quality of my work.  She answered, “It’s not that.”

… Then… What is it?

Other variations on ‘yes’ and ‘no’ substitutes include:

“Probably” / “Probably not”

“I’m afraid not”

“I would have thought so”

and my all-time favourite “I should think so” (by whose authority?)

One of my teachers at school used to say, “Que ton ‘oui’ soit an ‘oui’ et ton ‘non’ soit un ‘non’.  Le reste appartient au Diable.”

Yes.  She was French.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Uncategorized, Words and Civilisation | 3 Comments

Words and Civilisation: I Tried To Call You

Posted on April 3, 2011 by Scribe Doll

“I tried to call you.”

How many times have you heard that one? It is annoying enough when  friends say it but when I hear it in a professional context,  I have to repress my instinct to pounce and tear to shreds.   With the greatest respect to my fellow showbiz people, actors and casting directors are especially  guilty of recycling that excuse over and over again (all right, all right, Dah’lings – not ALL actors and casting directors – but a fair percentage).

You leave a message, asking to be rung back.  You wait.  You wait some more.  With what is left of your ground up patience, you pick up the ‘phone.  You hope against hope to hear one of the following:

1. “Oh, hi! I’m so sorry I haven’t  returned your call,  I’ve been seriously ill.  I’m only just recovering from a deadly strain of penguin ‘flu.  The doctor said the virus can be transmitted by ‘phone.  I didn’t want to put you at risk.”

2. “Hello? Who? I’m afraid I am suffering from amnesia.  The doctors say I hit my head on the steps of Joe Allen’s,  last Friday.  What’s your name again? I apologise, I don’t remember.”

3. The colleague/ PA of the person you are calling, “Hello.  I’m sorry, but I’m afraid So-and-So isn’t with us anymore.  I know,  it’s deeply sad.  The shock of the Arts Council cuts was too much to bear.  They said our company appealed mainly to middle-aged, middle-class, educated,  Radio 4 listening, RP speaking audiences.  They said an example just had to be made.”

What you do NOT want to hear, is:

1. “Oh, Hi! How are you?” in a casual tone, with no mention whatsoever of your message.

2. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t call you back – I’ve  been very busy.” (Is he/she implying you are not?)

3. “Sorry, I didn’t quite understand your message.” (Then why the hell did he/she not call for clarification?)

4. “Sorry, I’ve been away.”  (On a desert island where it was impossible to access voicemail?)

But what you really do not want to hear, under any circumstance, is:

“I tried to call you”, or its variation “I tried calling you”.

Definition of the verb ‘to try’ (Past Simple tried, Past Participle tried) provided by the Concise Oxford Dictionary (Tenth Edition): (1) make an attempt or effort to do something.

Given this premise, we assume that the person has gone as far as dialling your number.  However,  given the fact that you have a call waiting device and voicemail , anyone can easily contact you.  Therefore, when the person says, “I tried to call you” they clearly attempted to get to the telephone but something thwarted them mid-process, preventing them from actually dialling your number.  I am keen to know what it was.

“Hello.  Did you get the message I left you, last week?”

“Oh, yes, sorry… I tried to call you…”

“Oh, sorry – did you trip on your way to the ‘phone?”

Scribe Doll

Posted in Uncategorized, Words and Civilisation | 3 Comments

Odds & Ends: Pay Freely for a Service, Without Expectations

Posted on March 27, 2011 by Scribe Doll

This is now a regular occurrence.

I am at the supermarket, queuing to pay.  A member of staff rushes towards me.  His tone is cheerful, as though he has a special treat in store for me.  “Would you like to use the self-service till?”

I answer, “Do I get a discount?”

His benevolence fractures into incomprehension.  “Excuse me?”

I spell it out.  “If I do all the work myself, instead of the cashier, do I get a discount?”

The sales assistant mumbles something which corresponds to a “sorry, no” and scurries away with a self-conscious laugh.

In other words, I am invited to put myself through the inconvenience of scanning all my shopping items, process the payment, and submit to the over-loud instructions of the patronising electronic voice – and still pay the same amount as if a purpose-salaried cashier had done it all for me? Where is the incentive in that?

It is not just that I am lazy.  It is also my mini stand against humans losing their jobs to machines.

I take my photos to be printed.  I used to place my film roll on the counter, get a receipt, then go back for my photos when they were ready.  Now, in the era of Digital, I am expected to plug my memory stick into a computer, and perform a series of operations to select my pictures before printing my own receipt.  Yet I pay the same as I did when a sales assistant took care of my order.

I called my mobile ‘phone provider, to ask for help with a technical matter.  The customer service representative interrupted me, “You know you can get all this information on our website –”

I cut through him, “Don’t you want your job, anymore? Because if I go to the website, instead of calling you, you’ll become totally redundant.”

Have I misread my contract? Is there a clause which states that the mobile ‘phone company reserves the right to reduce the service but  your charges will not be affected?

You find a gorgeous T-shirt in a branch of a well-known trendy clothes chain.  It has the brand name printed in large letters over the chest.  Ask if you can have the T-shirt at a discount, to validate the contribution of your chest as an advertising space for the chain.  The store manager will stare at you in disbelief.  Illustrate your point with the examples of Tube and bus poster spaces.  None of those come for free.  Why would you market a product without some kind of remuneration?

Let us consider this trend in the context of the Big – I mean, Larger  – Society, as a whole.  Here are a few theories on how this could evolve.

Buy your Tube ticket.  Get on the train.  The driver offers you the option of driving the train yourself.  Or, better still, your weekly travelcard will entitle you to join a pool of volunteers who will take it in turns to drive the Tube train.  All that to equip you to become an independent individual who pays London Transport for the fare but, proud and self-sufficient, puts no demands on the authority to provide a service.

As the same self-sufficient individual, you meet your civic responsibilities by joyfully paying taxes and national insurance contributions.  However, your conscience does not allow you to sink to begging for anything in return.  After all, a decent human being gives freely.  Consequently, do not add to the drain on the NHS.  When you are ill, first look up all your symptoms on the internet, self-diagnose your ailment, then go and tell your GP what to prescribe.  It will save him/her considerable time and effort.

Finally, spare a thought for our over-worked, over-stressed Government.  All our Members of Parliament have most generously agreed to wave the 1% pay rise they would have been entitled to.  Such a gesture merits appreciation.  Let us reward them.  Let us allow them to share in the benefits of learning to be self-sufficient, independent, responsible members of The Larger Canvass.  Grant them the satisfaction of donating their salaries to the people, and run the country on a voluntary basis.  It just does not seem democratic to deny them the pleasure of giving freely, just for the joy of it.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Odds & Ends, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Pet Hates: Sharing a Table

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Scribe Doll

You’re meeting a friend you have not seen for a while, for coffee or lunch.  The setting must be conducive to a leisurely, free flowing conversation.  Without eavesdroppers.

You take all the necessary steps beforehand.  You arrive at the restaurant or coffee shop early, and secure the table of your choice, in that rare spot where you are far enough away from the blaring loudspeakers and out of the aim of the icy air conditioning apparatus.  The place starts filling up as you wait.

Your friend arrives.  You order drinks or food.  With the corner of your eye, you notice a figure progressing towards you.  For as long as you can, you hope that if you ignore it, it will go away.  And then the figure of the Stranger hovers at your table and utters the dreaded words.  “Do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full”.

The apologetic tone of the Stranger does not win your sympathy.  You do not suddenly remember what your parents and grandparents taught you about the value of sharing.  Ants live and die for the common good.  They belong to a society where individualism is suppressed.  Do you have an affinity with ants? You relate to your unquestioningly loving dog who, however, growls when you try and remove his bone, because the bone belongs to him.  The same way, you feel at that moment that the table belongs to you by right.  After all, you have earnt it.  You took the trouble of coming early enough to secure it.  If you could, you would growl at the Stranger.  Instead, you bare your teeth in a smile, say, “Of course!” and remove your jacket and bag from the spare seat with a show of inconvenience.

That’s when you have two choices.

Plan A: You continue the conversation with your friend, pretending that the Stranger is not making you feel self-conscious, and hoping that he or she is not eavesdropping.

Or, you hope the Stranger IS eavesdropping, and put in motion plan B.  For this option to succeed, you need your friend’s cooperation.  Plan B is all about how to make the Stranger leave of his or her own free will, as quickly as possible.

Plan B1: Start the following conversation:

You: “So, which way do you think is better – stabbing or strangling?”

Friend: “Strangling, definitely.  It’s quieter.  In case she starts screaming.”

You: “You’re right.  Also, then, we don’t have the problem of washing the blood stains off the carpet.”

Friend: “But it has to be quick.  We don’t have much time.”

At this point, the eavesdropper will generally gulp down his or her drink, and leave.  In the unlikely event you get confronted, tell the truth; that you are discussing the most realistic way of staging a death scene in The Duchess of Malfi or another Jacobean tragedy, and are worried about the stage blood capsules staining the set and costumes.

Plan B2: Lean right into the personal space area of the Stranger, give them an earnest, loving look, and say, “”Did you know? You have really sexy lips!”

Plan B3: Turn to the Stranger, and say, “You don’t remember me, do you? Have I changed that much? I can’t believe you can’t remember that night we spent together on that boat on the Nile.  Yes, we did! Did your husband/wife ever find out? I still have your name tattooed on my armpit!” (Make a show of trying to take your clothes off to prove your point).

Plan B4: Ask the Stranger to lend you £50.  Promise them you will post them a cheque the same day if they give you their name and address.

Plan B5: Start a conversation with your friend about the medical merits of surgery without anaesthetic.  Describe the whole procedure in great detail, from the incision to the sewing up of the patient, not forgetting the middle bits.

Once the Stranger has left you in sole possession of the table, don’t feel guilty.  After all, it was their decision to leave.  You never asked them to.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Pet Hates, Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Words and Civilisation: How Are You?

Posted on March 13, 2011 by Scribe Doll

I would love to hear comments on this, particularly from my non-British subscribers.

I met a Russian friend, last week.  After the initial greeting and ambicheek kiss, I asked, “How are you?”

She told me about the state of her marriage, of her finances, or her job, and of her physical and mental health.  Her answer took about ten minutes, during which I grew increasingly peevish, though I could not pinpoint the reason.  It was not my friend’s fault.  She was merely answering my question – a question I had asked of my own free will.  Then, the penny dropped – I was too English.

Time and again, foreigners ask me, “When English people say, ‘how are you?’ do they really want to know?”

Absolutely not.

“So what should you answer?”

Fine, thanks.

It’s an enquiry we make automatically, in conformance with the rules of elementary politeness.  Your role is to answer, “Fine, thanks”.  It is not an invitation for you to be rebellious, unconventional or creative.  And especially not your cue to start disclosing the icky-sticky messy details of your uncontrollable life.

Obviously, we cannot generalise.  There are occasions when people truly want to know how life is treating us.  In those cases, they tend to pause in their tracks, hold your gaze, and wait for an answer.  Research has yet to be done to produce exact percentages of genuine versus non-genuine instances.  As a rule of thumb, I would say that there is on average as frequent sincere curiosity in “how are you?” as there is heartfelt contrition every time we say “sorry”.

“Hello” alone seems somehow naked.  So we accessorise it with “how are you?”  Every day, we pass colleagues on the stairs, and neighbours in the street.  They smile and say, “Hello-how-are-you” apparently without punctuation.  The sentence is rushed in a single breath.  Sometimes, even the question mark is barely audible.  More often than not, they continue walking as they say it, so the ‘hello’ comes towards you but the ‘how are you’ whooshes past you.  Frequently, you need to spin around to answer “Fine, thanks” while the person is still within earshot.

Try adding, “and how are you?” and you will see puzzlement in his or her face, as though something is out of sync.  Start elaborating on the kind of day you are having, and you are being downright disruptive.

Montesquieu believed that climatic conditions shape cultures and personalities.  They certainly determine our needs and our longings.  We strive for what we lack.  The Moors, desert people, delighted in fountains, pools and luxuriating flowers they created in Southern Spain.  The English are the product an unstable climate under turbulent skies.  Summer can turn to winter within an hour, with a powerful gust of wind.  Consequently, the English are creatures of habit who crave an orderly existence.  When they ask “how are you?” they are seeking reassurance that all is well in their world, that there are no upheavals or crises to be tackled.  Do not deny them that reassurance.  Do not sow doubt in their calm-seeking minds.  Just answer “fine, thanks” and watch their grateful smile.

I often wonder how people would react if we were to subsititute the compulsory question with a statement.  Instead of “hello, how are you?”, we could say “hello, I hope you’re well”.  It requires no answer, so no risk of demands on our time.  Also, it frees the person from the awkward choice between lying and pouring out a magma of personal details.

I would really like to experiment this new form of greeting.  Perhaps I could give up asking “how are you?” and not mean it, for Lent.  Only, I am too English to break old habits.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Uncategorized, Words and Civilisation | 1 Comment

Odds & Ends: The Ladies’ Room*

Posted on March 6, 2011 by Scribe Doll

(*See legal disclaimer below)

Even in our era – sadly so full of fears and threats – there are few places as scary as the ladies’ room at a ball, or other dressing up social event.  In fact, the more elegant the clothes, the higher the atmosphere of menace in the powder room.  To all the men who have a natural fear of the gentler sex, I would say, you cannot truly experience the ferocity of the felines except in their natural habitat.  And women’s natural habitat, where nails are filed to a point and scarlet is carefully reapplied to the lips, is the only female inner sanctum where no male is allowed – the ladies’ loo.

It is the self-contained headquarters of espionage (“How did he react when I said that? I deliberately wasn’t looking at him”), psychotherapy (“He’s not worth it. Plenty more sharks – I mean fish – in the sea”), first aid (“Could you help me – my zip has got jammed?”), military strategy (“Next time he does that, just say –” and diplomacy (“You’re so much better than his new girlfriend”).  It is there that a keen zoologist can study the many facets of the female instinct, from nurturing to destructive, with all the rich graduation of colours in between.  It’s too bad only female zoologists qualify for that particular research fellowship.

Firstly, let’s look at a typical visit to the ladies’ room.  As you push the door open, all eyes turn to you.  It is a quick assessment to check that you are a bona fide member of the club.  Then, you are confronted with one of the universe’s great unresolved  riddles – why is there ALWAYS a queue in the women’s toilet? (Answers on a postcard, please.)  Once you have emerged from your private time in the cubicle, your next stop is the sink and – most importantly – the mirror.  Even though you know it will still get wet, you try and balance your make up purse on the only tiny dry section on the sink, and you start taking out your war paint.  You lengthen that thin dark line on the edge of your eyelid, smudge some more concealer on that blemish, add panache to your lashes with another stroke of mascara brush and slide the lipstick over your mouth.

That is when you catch several other pairs of eyes in the mirror. Scientists say that women’s brains can multitask better than men’s.  Although the other club members are visibly absorbed in retouching their own make up, their attention is on you.  In their feline eyes there are questions: how is SHE doing it? Is it something I can do, too? Does she have a new warfare strategy than I can learn and use to my advantage? Of course, the moment they realise they are also being watched, the staring eyes narrow into a pussycat blink and a tight lipped smile that says: don’t worry, we’re all sisters here.  At this point beware.  If one of the other club members says, “I love your dress”, the literal translation is “I hate you for looking better than I do”.  If you want to follow the club’s code of conduct (and if you wish to keep your eyes unscratched, I suggest you do), your response must never be, “Oh, thank you very much!” but “Oh, you like it? I’m not sure about it, myself, I think it makes me look so fat”.  If you’re aiming to become a senior member, then add, “I’m so glad you think it looks OK on me, I was so worried I looked awful”.  By acting the defenceless kitten, you automatically appeal to the nurturing side of the other women, who – knowing there is nothing to fear from you – will retract their claws and, if you’re very lucky, will even give you a well-disposed piece of advice (which you will make sure you bin at the exit).

Of course, once you’ve left the gynaeceum behind, and rejoined the company of men, the sisterhood vanishes like a chimera.  What is left behind is a group of Celtic female warriors, ready to fight to the death.

* Legal Disclaimer: not all women are like that.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Odds & Ends, Uncategorized | 1 Comment