SOMETIMES it is too easy to become trapped in the sticky web of other people’s lives. More often than not these are people I’ve neither seen nor heard before, and will probably never see or hear again, but for these brief minutes I am as close as family to them.
This is thanks to a growing habit of strangers opening up and sharing themselves with other strangers. I guess they find it cathartic. I find it awkward.
For example, I walked into a shop at the weekend and, while I busied myself trying to magic a skirt on to me without the faff of a 30-minute wrestling session in the changing room, a woman customer poured her troubles out to the two staff.
Those two, I noticed when I stole a glance, had the glazed look of the terminally bored – though it is possible they’d assumed that countenance the minute they arrived at work. It happens, we know.
Mrs Loud Customer ploughed on through her riveting tale of a house-sale that had fallen through, blaming just about everyone for the disaster. She did not, I noticed, mention the possibility that the potential purchasers may have simply run away because they’d had enough of her.
Among those she blamed were her neighbours, her local councillor, her MP and, naturally enough, the entire coalition and, in particular, Mr Cameron. All fair game, especially the ones in public office, I suppose, but I felt for her neighbours. It was all because of a flawed planning decision, she proclaimed loudly, meaning that what the villagers had been promised had turned out to be far from what they got in the end. Something about thundering lorries, stinking emissions, ruthless landowners and heartless businessmen. She had all the clichés, so it was presumably an oft-told saga, albeit her own biased version of it.
Just as a little hammer in my head was beating to the tune of “I Gotta Get Outa This Place” Mrs Loud Customer’s story took a more intriguing turn. She started to name names, mentioning, among others, how So-and-So could never be trusted, especially since his wife had left him because he’d turned odd.
The glazed-over assistants looked as awkward as I felt now. It was high time Mrs LC piped down or her indiscretions could land her in a litigious mess with the word ‘slander’ attached.
Part of me wanted to say, “I know Mr So-and-So” and watch her face. But really I just wanted her to stop and take her woes elsewhere.
This she finally did, with the sort of flourish that indicated ‘job done’ on her part. I asked the glazed ones if they knew her. Never seen her in here before, they said.
How extraordinary it is that people feel comfortable in pouring out the minutiae of their lives to strangers. What gave Mrs LC the confidence to be so rude and personal about people by name? Staggering ignorance, I suppose, and membership of that growing band who don’t give a monkeys what other people think. They behave in the way they want because they consider they are ‘within their rights’. Well, sunshine, you may think you are but you have overlooked a couple of important considerations called decency and respect.
Mrs LC’s immoderate behaviour was no more tolerable than that exhibited by the numerous oafs who exaggerate their foul language in public. These are the yoof of both sexes who fill pavements, crowding out pedestrians and raising their voices regardless of who is within earshot. Many is the time I’ve taken refuge in a gutter and wished I was wearing ear defenders.
Oh, I’d better stop. I’m getting hot under the collar.
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