We ate in silence at my brother-in-laws house, interrupted only by the tiny questions asked by his mother. A quick fire interrogation about… well; nothing. To be more specific, which friend was doing what, who I was dating, where I had travelled, how had it been.

I hope I haven’t made it sound more interesting than it was.

My mother, bless her, asked if I had met anyone last week, in denial about my promiscuous ways, no doubt. She needs her own material for the local gossip. I thought it best to lie, adding some detail along the way. I write stories for a living… how hard can that be. Unfortunately I’ve never been a good liar.

I start telling her about a real character that I met in Bangkok and then ran into again whilst in Brooklyn, went into detail about their appearance; said that we’d been speaking about the hype behind travelling. Completely forgot that I’d told her this story already, ad it wasn’t true, I hadn’t met anyone. More accurately, I’d sold this story already.

“Isn’t that one of your characters… isn’t that…”

Yes mother, it was a bad book in the archives of my mind that I thought, I hoped… had been long forgotten. Apparently not for the matriarch of the family… they remember that shit!

So yeah, I can’t handle small talk. I’d rather lie. I can’t lie. It’s a serious dichotomy that I find myself in regularly. Being judgemental doesn’t help, a trait or perhaps bad habit, that I haven’t been able to shake.

The definition of small talk:

It’s fair to say that somewhere in the world… right now, there is a Sharon, or Linda, or Pam… in accounts, it’s her birthday and there’s a Graham, in a tired suit, buying a reduced price birthday cake on lunch break, and in the office somewhere, a bunch of co-workers are signing a birthday card in biro pen.

Small talk, if it needs to exist, surely has a time and place. You thought that was the cinema? The cinema? During the movie… are you kidding me? I don’t know what group home you were raised in Katie, but I’m sure Chanel and Emily can wait to hear about your argument with Mike last week. I know I can.

I can’t breathe in the passive smoke of belligerent conversation, I can’t listen to small talk. How do we connect anymore? I can’t be the only one… how do we fight this epidemic.

This is the blog of Crocodile Books... how potentially exciting. All views are others, we don't actually write... just publish. If you are a writer, author, looking for a job... get in touch. We are hiring.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: