Reviving the Habit.

I rarely talk to anybody these days because so very few people enter my world at such a level as to make conversation a necessary or desirable outcome. I consequence, I’m a little out of practice with regard to the norms of polite or practical communion.

And so I walked into the funeral parlour in Uttoxeter to make enquiries about the funeral plan, and found myself regarded inquisitively by two middle aged women sitting behind desks. They said nothing; the onus was apparently on me to explain the reason for my presence.

‘Sorry,’ I began, ‘I’m not actually dead yet, but I have some questions for you.’

Their expressionless demeanour indicated that the joke, if such it may be described, had fallen to the floor, flat as a Staffordshire oatcake, and was fit only to be kicked unceremoniously under the desk. In other words, they probably hear that line every day of the week. I felt mildly embarrassed before continuing with the questions.

Next stop was the pet shop on the retail park, there to buy a large bag of bird seed for the bird tables in the garden. It comes in 28lb packs, which at one time I would have thrown around casually with one hand all day. But that was a long time ago. Now it takes both arms to lift it onto the counter for scanning.

Having taken my payment, the young woman on the till (actually there were two of them, but mine was the prettier – which probably didn’t help) asked ‘Will you be all right carrying that to the car?’ The ready and utterly facile wit insisted on coming to the fore again. ‘Do I look that old?’ I said, somewhat askance. ‘I mean, I know I am, but I rather hoped I didn’t actually look it yet.’ Same response – flat. I searched for a way to redeem myself because today was not going well.

‘It must be very pleasant working in a place like this where you get to have dog fixes every day,’ I offered. It must have worked because they readily agreed (even the prettier one, which pleasing), and so I felt sufficiently emboldened to continue: ‘It’s far better than being a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist, isn’t it? Being one of those only feeds the ego and the bank balance, whereas making friends with dogs every day is pure succour to the inner being.’

They said nothing. I expect they thought me very odd, and were both planning to draw lots for the benefit of avoiding me the next time I go in there. But I felt proud at last to have muttered something of minor consequence and made my way manfully back to the car, consciously avoiding any obvious signs of struggling with the weight.

*  *  *

Off to read the next instalment of Kafka on the Shore now. The protagonist – a 15-year-old boy called Kafka – has just met a slightly older girl called Sakura (which, as far as I recall, means ‘cherry blossom’ in Japanese) on the bus. He says she’s not particularly attractive facially, but it’s obvious that he’s being captivated by her vibrant personality. That’s my boy.