Even though it can be considered a community-minded activity, litter-picking is something I like to do alone, as part of my exercise regime: a walk with a purpose. I don’t initiate conversations with people I encounter, since they end predictably in whinging about the culprits, the council or both, but older people sometimes thank me for doing a good job. (One man even suggested he pay his council tax directly to me. I offered him my bank account details, but he shied away with a chuckle.) Younger people never say anything to me. I reckon they think I’m a crazy old eccentric, though I do try consciously to avoid dressing like one.
Whether or
not to strike up conversation with a stranger is a conundrum. If you do, you
might end up regretting it: some people are congenitally boring. If you don’t,
you might miss out on making the acquaintance of someone with interesting
things to say.
I was on my
way to an appointment and called in to a tiny café for a quick bite. The only
place to sit was at an already occupied table. English reserve demands some
delicacy in these situations. The seated incumbent could not reasonably object
to my joining them, but neither of us would need to say anything beyond a brief
acknowledgement of the awkward intimacy of sharing, in which case the situation
thereafter would entail pretending that we were invisible to each other.
In the time
before mobile phones, this strategy could have been accomplished in one of two
ways: steadfastly avoiding eye contact or hiding behind a newspaper. Now, we
can all turn to our phones and focus our attention elsewhere in the universe. The
last of these options was, I thought, to be my fall-back position as I made up
my mind to take the vacant seat.
But my table-mate-to-be
was simply looking out of the window and, when I approached, he nodded and gave
off friendly vibes. The waitress then arrived with his order and some brief banter,
after which it seemed more natural for us to converse than to avoid doing so.
I was in
luck: although he was some thirty years younger than me, we had some common
ground. Both of us had previously lived in the same places, at home and abroad,
so there were reminiscences. He had become a keen campervanner and even had the
same model as mine, so we compared notes. When I told him I was on my way to do
a couple of hours volunteering at a local charity, he told me that he and his
wife had decided to “give back” and that they had begun fostering children (a
far more courageous commitment than mine). I said I had just heard a radio
interview with an advocate for foster parents in which they argued for foster
families to be given the services of a cleaner to assist with the household
chores. He had heard the same interview and seconded the proposal
enthusiastically.
Half an hour
later, I shook hands with Billy and headed for my voluntary stint in an unstructured,
“make yourself useful” role. I was covering front-of-house at the charity’s hub,
an open-plan space for informal meetings and social activities, which also serves
as an incubator for nascent businesses, including an on-site restaurant. In
keeping with its social mission, it welcomes people from the street who are
curious, sociable, lonely, cold, hungry or mentally troubled, all of whom represent
a cross section of the community that you might not encounter if you happen to
be holed up in a particular lifestyle silo.
I don’t know
to what extent my efforts at the charity make a difference to anyone else, but mixing
with other types, keeping engaged and talking to strangers may at least reduce
the likelihood of my drifting, haplessly, towards crazy old eccentricity.
