Talking to Strangers

          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.