You'd think after so many years of being a journalist I would be used to making more of an effort. But when I'm off duty I fall too easily into the comfort zone of completely minding my own business. It's laziness masquerading as politeness. I can travel far and wide on public transport without bothering to make any verbal contact with the person sitting next to me. (For clarity, I should stress I am talking about strangers here, not, for instance, my wife. We do endeavour on such occasions to exchange thoughts on a reasonably frequent basis. Old romantics that we are.)
But as I travel solo on my whistle stop tour of New Zealand, I've given myself a good talking to. Well, it's important to start with your most attentive audience after all.
The results have been mixed thus far. For some strange reason, the people I have had most success with have been women of a certain age. It's hard to be certain what that age is but I would venture it is in the ball park of where it would be improper to ask. Incidentally it's one of life's peculiarities that the only people who enthusiastically volunteer their ages tend to be children (''I'm going to be 7") and the particularly mature (''I'm nearly 90 you know.'') Anyway, the new approach showed early promise. At an al fresco cafe on the outskirts of Auckland, one woman asked if she could take the chair next to me. Normally I would simply say 'yes' and swiftly look back at my phone, in a never-ending quest to craft the perfect tweet. But this time, I left my largely imagined, virtual audience on tenterhooks and struck up an old-fashioned, real-life conversation. It was like abandoning Spotify to line up the opening track on vinyl.
A bit crackly, imperfect and liable to jump around a bit but a far richer experience. Recognising a north of England accent, I enquired where she was from. ''Holmfirth,'' she said, ''where they filmed Last of the Summer Wine.''
I immediately conjured up images of Compo careering hilariously downhill in a runaway tin bath - and the connection was made. Joined by her husband, we then moved the conversation to Cardiff, his father's home town.
"He was a shooting champion."
I felt this necessitated a follow up, both socially and journalistically. It transpired the father in question had won a bronze medal in the Kuala Lumpur Commonwealth Games in 1998. It was a genuinely enjoyable exchange and as went our separate ways, I felt I was off to a flyer.
On the boat back from the beautiful Kawau Island, the early success stuttered. Once again, I started things off, striking up a rapport with the woman opposite and the conversation turned to Sir George Grey, former governor of New Zealand - a divisive figure whose impressive mansion greets day-trippers on the Kawau shoreline.
''My great-grandfather knew him,'' she said with a look that offered much. Until that point my inadequate hearing had been coping but as if cued by Sir George himself the boat's engine struck up and the tales of his misdemeanours, if indeed that's what they were, floated away unheard across the high seas (allow me some hyperbole here). My informant's long silvery locks then started billowing across her face completing the censorship.
After several minutes, where I guessed at a range of appropriate facial expressions in reply, she finished the tale, gave me a knowing tap on the shoulder and disappeared below deck.
Undaunted by such a setback, I have continued this fresh approach. On the journey from North to South Island, I turned to the man in the next seat ready with my opening gambit. But he was already asleep, a head tilt and early dribble formation leaving little room for optimism. He awoke in time to collect his bag from the overhead locker and we exchanged nothing more than an awkward half-smile apiece.
So it's not the most impressive of strike rates yet but I will keep at it, at the risk of being the person on the bus, train, plane that no-one wants to sit next to.
And as I travel alone, I'm increasingly aware that so many of us are actually craving a short burst of social interaction, me included. It can as I have experienced be a hit and miss affair but too often we take the easy route of keeping ourselves to ourselves, the magnetic pull of the smart phone adding to the not-so-splendid isolation. It would be good I think if we could change our habits. In some public parks, you now see benches where an inscription encourages people to chat. So let's broaden that appeal and get talking. And if it all gets a little too much, you'll be forgiven for nodding off. Just try not to dribble.
Kommentare