Exchanging pleasantries and accepting lollies – a cautionary tale

It's fair to say that any limited eloquence and elegance that my brain produces usually flows in the direction of my typing fingers rather than my voice box.

This is not to suggest that I'm not an adequate talker. Indeed, I can bore for hours on subjects which seem inane and trivial to everyone but me.

Most conversational situations reduce me to a state of discomfort akin to a slug having a bath in salt water. In most social settings when we meet other people my wife takes the lead.

This is not an arrangement that was ever discussed but it is the pattern we have adopted to make life easier. She is better at chatting, so she does that. I am better at hauling coal in from the outside shed, so I do that.

But, my wife is not always around and, despite my obvious limitations, I do try. I make small-talk with my neighbours, exchange anecdotes with the parents of the other children at school, stop and chat when I meet a former work acquaintance in the street.

I smile and force myself not to say stupid things. I ignore the voice in my head which tells me everyone despises me. I try not to scare the other person off with my raging furious intensity about trivial things.

Occasionally I will attempt to offer a pleasantry to one of the staff members who work in the bakery I visit every day. Sometimes they respond and then I’m left looking foolish because I haven’t got a follow-up remark prepared.

Work requires that I have conversations on my mobile phone every day. I dread the long silences when I cannot think of anything to say and have been known to pretend that the line has dropped off or the signal has failed just to avoid the awkwardness.

And so, I am walking in the street with my son. I have just picked him up from school and he wants to visit the play park. On the way we pass a barber shop. The owner is standing out the front of the shop having a smoke.

He sees me with my son and smiles a greeting.

It seems rude not to reciprocate so I say hello and stop to chat for a moment before continuing on in the direction of the park. We exchange banal pleasantries, inquiries about families and work, comments on the weather.

And then, as it always seems to do, the conversation begins to flag. I have never worked out the best escape route when found in such an encounter. It would be rude to just run off, but I can’t find the correct form of words which extricates me from the awkwardness.

I hear myself saying out loud that I hope it doesn’t rain. The barber agrees. I think I see a pleading in his eyes, a desperate desire to get back to the silent enjoyment of his fag.

Then he comes up with an idea, a potential exit. He asks my son if he would like a lolly. My son says yes. I stand confused for a second before the barber guides me into the shop. I find the large jar of lollies and ask my son which colour he prefers.

At this point I turn and see that the barber has followed me into the shop and closed the door. Immediately I feel trapped and under pressure. He begins to prepare the barber's chair for me and offers to take my coat.

I now find myself in the ridiculous situation of having to decide whether to go along with it or explain to him that I had just been making small-talk in the street, I really don't want my hair cut. I was just trying to be normal.

I give him my coat. He guides me towards the chair. I think about how I can stop this before it gets out of control. I sit on the chair. My son is standing beside me wearing a confused expression. I look at myself in the mirror. I’ve already had my hair cut this week. It doesn’t need doing again.

An idea enters my head.

“Do you take card?” I enquire.

“No, I don't have a machine.”

“I'm really sorry, but I've just realised that I don't have any cash,” I say brightly.

“It's ok, there's a cash machine in the shop next door.”

“Ah, that's good.”

My son is now shifting impatiently beside me.

“I'm really sorry,” I begin, “but I don't think I have time to get my hair cut just now. I'd forgotten I have a really important appointment I have to get to.”

The barber looks suspicious as I clamber out of his chair.

“Well then, would tomorrow suit? In the morning?”

“Uh...um...yeah ok.”

“About ten?”

'Er...that's perfect.”

He starts to write something in a book.

“'Name?”

“Eh?”

“Your name? For the booking.”

I seriously consider giving a false name, but my brain is so scrambled all I can think of is Mr Bump. I gave my name. My real name. The barber happily waves me off.

“See you in the morning then.”

I take a few dazed steps. Then my son says to me.

“Daddy, did you get my lolly?”

I return to the shop where the barber generously hands over a red lolly. I leave again and take a few more dazed steps before my son says to me.

“Daddy, where's your coat?”

I have to return to the shop again to retrieve my coat. As we finally head for the park my son gives me a curious glance, one that I believe expresses his desire to be like his daddy, to learn from my wise counsel, to be firm, assertive and steadfast. Then he goes back to licking his lolly.