Strangers in Sainsbury's.

There was a young woman outside Sainsbury’s today wearing the sort of furry hat that my mother, who died thirty years ago, used to wear. ‘Your hat is rather striking,’ I said to her. Her blank stare suggested that she thought I might have been from another planet, but then she smiled and all was well.

There was another young woman inside Sainsbury’s, with a baby in a buggy which was staring at me as babies are wont to do. I waved but received no response. When I saw them again later I remonstrated (gently) with the child. ‘I waved to you and you didn’t wave back,’ I said, not expecting a reply of course. The baby frowned while the mother emulated the previous encounter by silently questioning whether I might be an alien being of some sort and was she imaging things. And then she smiled so the day was saved again.

A few weeks ago I finally got around to asking one of the shelf fillers in Sainsbury’s a question. ‘Are you a mother?’ I asked. Her initially silent response put me in mind of a volcano about to erupt. ‘Yes, why?’ she snarled. ‘Just curious,’ I replied. ‘It’s just that I discern the air of a mother about you, and I wondered whether I might be right. The impending eruption subsided to be replaced by a look of suspicion, followed eventually by a smile as she said ‘Yes, I am.’

So what is it about me that leads to blank stares and volcanic eyes? Could it be vindication of my suspicion that millennials are bereft of banter? Could it be the way that I speak, or the Quasimodo air I probably project, or the unconventional nature of my opening gambits? Or should I simply stop addressing strangers in the vicinity of Sainsbury’s? I think the last one is favourite.