Talk Isn’t Cheap

Talk Isn’t Cheap
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday February 14, 2015

Small talk is the art of saying nothing in particular. This, in itself, constitutes a problem. Among strangers, I quail at converting my interior monologue to an exterior dialogue. What if my listener thinks I’m a braggart? Or a bore?

I have no issue with talking per se. I can efficiently convert my James Joyce-ian stream of consciousness to sound: words babble from my mouth with ease. I like to fill the gaps in conversations before they turn into unpleasant silences. I can talk incessantly by yoga-breathing through my nose.

But in social settings, the pressure to be entertaining makes me skittish. I fear my awkward thoughts will produce awkward conversation. (I like to save my eccentricities for my friends). One glass of champagne and I begin to prattle.

Last Wednesday at a festival launch, I found myself wedged against a retired but fashionable gentleman in a shirt printed all over with pineapples. I was trapped with him between a table of hors d’oeuvres and a staircase. He began pumping me for tips on how to attract an audience to his blog.

“My concern is how to make it authentic,” he said earnestly.

“Well, that’s not a problem,” I replied, warming to a favourite topic. “Just write about what you know. Don’t fake it. Readers can always tell when you’re making it up.”

“I write from the perspective of my cat,” he said.

Caught in the stare of his unblinking eyes, my smile died on my lips. The air between us turned crisp. I took a gulp of my champagne and tittered as we plunged into a conversational black hole. I contrived my escape by pretending to greet a familiar face amongst the sea of heads beyond him.

“Can you excuse me?” I said. “But I’d like to talk more about your cat later.”

And away I weaved from the feline impersonator to camouflage myself amid the humid crush at the bar.

Waiting for the barman’s attention, I cringed at my conversational misfire. I shouldn’t have been so strident. Would the poor blogger’s ego reinflate? I ordered a spritzer and kept my third eye roving on alert against an incoming pineapple shirt.

What constitutes good small talk? I have discovered that often, it involves complaining. We women, in particular, like to bond over mutual hatreds and petty grievances. At a friend’s 50th just before Christmas, I tuned into the chatter of two women in our queue for the loo.

“Ugh! How hot was it today?” said one.

“And humid!” replied the other. (Mutual rolling of eyes).

“My hair turns to frizz in this weather!” said the first woman.

“I know. I know. Makes me pine for winter.”

Her friend lowered her voice: “Though I see Sharon’s enjoying the heat – does she have to come bra-less to everything?!”

I gawped to recognise Sharon as a former workmate as she bounced out of the stall.

As an over-confident 20-something, I was keen to show off my verbal thrust and parry. In my world of work, small talk was not just a rudimentary exchange or a comfort zone when drinking. It could open doors. Enhance reputations. Small talk had winners and losers.

But I found the competition exhausting. The extroverts were bent on outsmarting and outcharming each other. The introverts were ignored. The rest of us couldn’t get a word in. Sometimes at parties, I’d adjourn to a corner and study people’s faces as they interrupted each other. Their gaiety just looked forced.

There’s something civilised about allowing pauses in a conversation. We all want to plug a silence, but it’s remarkable how interesting other people become when they’re allowed time to collect their thoughts.

My husband does not require small talk to sustain his entertainment. In varying degrees, it bores him, drains him and irritates him. When I’m sharing scuttlebutt about Julie Bishop’s hair, I’ll see his eyes narrow and his forehead crease into a frown. He’s trying to comprehend how this conversation could interest anyone. He’s not being superior – he just doesn’t get it. To him, idle chatter is the noise we make on our way to meaningful conversations – like the pros and cons of floating the Swiss franc. He specialises in big-talk, a la Winston Churchill, but with hair.

So in this, the Year of the Goat, I have decided to perfect my small talk. I will charge into spontaneous conversations with strangers and shine. I will be ebullient and charming and my single entendres will double. I will deliver my repertoire of Rose Hancock anecdotes and expect my audience to clutch their stomachs and hoot. And when I find myself next to the bra-less Sharon at the checkout, I’ll be brave and say: “Thanks for pretending you didn’t see me in the Weetbix aisle, Shaz. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk either.”

Like the clappers

Like the clappers
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday January 24, 2015

Rough landings test my nerves. Belted tightly into my window seat, I stared at the wing tip flexing violently. The rain sheeted in grey gusts. My bird’s eye view of the city was a blur. As the cabin jolted and jerked, the young woman next to me clutched our armrest. She caught my eye, searching for reassurance. I returned her a half-hearted smile and stiffened for the landing.

One set of wheels slammed onto the runway, then the other. I gasped as we lurched sideways and the overhead lockers groaned. The engines roared into reverse and the air brakes on the wing bit into the thick air.

Above the dying screech of the engines, I heard the sudden but unmistakeable sound of someone clapping a few rows ahead of me. My neighbour glanced sideways at me and began clapping too. I felt compelled to join her. A moment later, the cabin erupted into brief applause: we passengers united in our appreciation for our pilots’ skill.

It was still raining as I clambered into a cab. En route to the city, transfixed by the rhythmic arc of the windscreen wipers, I thought about clapping. Why do we clap? Why is it so infectious? What if that passenger had decided not to applaud our pilot? Would our landing have been met only with grateful silence?

I decided clapping is a social contagion – the more a crowd begins to clap, the more pressure there is to join in.

I learned about clapping protocols from my grandmother. We had season tickets to the Concert Hall, stalls, row G. Seat 16 belonged to me, aged nine. Nan, in her fox stole and smelling of lavender talc, squeezed her bottom into seat 17. Even better than the plush crimson seats was the packet of Allen’s Fantales that appeared from the depth of Nan’s handbag. As she turned to discuss the programme with the cognoscente in seat 18, I hastily unwrapped three Fantales and crammed them into my mouth.

My euphoria at having achieved this feat undetected was shortlived. Two toffees were a manageable deceit, but three cemented my jaw shut. I could feel my molars straining at the root as I tried to force top and bottom teeth apart. After a minute of lockjaw and unable to contain the toffee dribble, I tapped Nan’s arm in panic. She turned, frowned at my bulging cheeks and my stained dress and passed me her hanky: “Clean yourself up!” The conductor will be out in a minute. You’ll need to clap hard.”

The maestro, in suit and tails, swept onto the stage with his halo of wild hair and took a deep bow. I clapped furiously, but wondered why, seeing he hadn’t performed yet.

I thought those concerts would never end. I got tired of examining the orchestra so I rubber-necked my fellow concert-goers instead, daring them to return my stare.

And then the conductor let his baton rest, and the music stopped. People rustled and coughed. I started to clap but Nan pinned my hands firmly to my lap. “Not now,” she whispered, “it’s the height of rudeness to clap between movements.” Not clapping mid-symphony became my mark of sophistication.

Nearly an hour later, when Mahler was spent and the maestro rejoined us mortals, I was allowed to clap. I made as big a racket as I could, desperate to release the tension from sitting still for so long. My ears rang and my palms stung but I kept clapping, because everyone else was. Who decided when the applause should stop?

Since then, I have discovered several ways to clap: flat-palmed, hands cupped, thumbs locked, two-fingered (for smart-alecs). My favourite is the fingers of my right hand smacking the palm of my left. If I reverse hands, I feel awkward. (A limp clap is as gauche as a flaccid handshake.)

Historians say clapping descended from the Roman legionnaires who banged spears against shields to applaud a commander. Roman audiences added clapping to their repertoire of finger and thumb clicking, toga flapping and handkerchief waving to express degrees of approval. A disappointed crowd would stay conspicuously silent.

Now, I fear clapping has become rote and ritualised, often an expectation rather than a reward. I blame television for manufacturing applause the way it added canned laughter. In the late 50s, the clap-o-meter purported to measure the popularity of quiz-show contestants. It was a sham, given the producers had already pre-selected the winner. Now, floor managers and warm-up guys whip audiences into raining applause onto even mediocre performers. (Everyone else gets a standing ovation.)

I once went to a performance at a school for the hearing impaired where we were taught how to flap our hands above their heads to signal our approval. Clapping soundlessly took a bit of getting used to. But I’ve never forgotten the rapt silence that accompanied a hundred pairs of hands waving their congratulations. The most deserved applause is not always the noisiest.