Where Are My Manners?

I have noticed both with a feeling of maturation and dismayed boredom; that I am at less and less pains to discuss the weather. It never failed to annoy and confuse me the way my grandmother treated the weatherman like a god. And I mean that. I think the older people get, and maybe partially due to the situations in which people we now call the elderly grew up, the more importance things they can’t control carry. Doctors, lawyers, bank managers… all take on an unearthly significance. The news telecast is a religious event, whereby all other activities must cease while she sits in the glow and the amplified roar of the box and learns of not only the past, but the future. Invariably the forecast is wrong; but in all these years it still hasn’t stopped her fretting over what is going to become of her garden the next day.
It always perplexed me why adults discussed the weather so. With such unvarying interest, like their lives depended on it or they had never experienced such heat/cold/wind before. But the other day, the lollipop man (school crossing supervisor) of all people, remarked that it was a nice day as I crossed the road. And normally being the polite nod kind of person, it surprised me when natural as can be I said “Mm, and they said it was going to be so cold today” with great affection and concern for the present weather. And worse still, I disliked the present conditions, as I was rather overdressed and had been walking all day, and would have much preferred that it had been cold.
I’m getting old and institutionalised before my time I swear it.
I’m watching my ‘pleases’ and ‘thank you’s with maternal concern. In what I view as my socially inept younger years, I was a child not born to the tradition of being asked how they were by everyone they passed. In primary school they don’t expect it, and in the city there are far too many people to bother with. But being on good terms with the teachers in a country high school leaves you prey to it three or four times a corridor. I never knew how to respond. I never really got the point of it to begin with. Why do people feel the need to constantly ask others how they are? I’ve always been confused on the receiving end, but it must be equally peculiar to walk along on autopilot asking person after person about their day. I guess it’s better than ‘Hi’, but it’s not a real conversation starter either – and it’s meant to be. But somehow now it’s just a form of address, and I can never tell whether people really want it to go some place or not. Do they really want to know how you are, so you ask them how they are and you can both stand there pleasantly or unpleasantly gabbering for a few minutes? Or are they being polite, and just want you to say ‘fine’ and let them carry on about their business? But one thing is certain – they never actually want to know how you are.
‘How are you?’
‘Not so good mate; my car got broken into this morning’
O-oh… Um, gee… that’s terrible’ – leaves the first in a tight spot and with obviously more conversation than they bargained for. It never goes down as well as a simple ‘Good thanks.’ No matter how far from the truth that is. And so that is how I have taken to responding. I don’t have the insolence or ignorance to just grunt or say ‘good’ (and I tell you, sadly this is better than most of my age bracket) nor do I have the audacity or interest to throw the question back at them.

But that doesn’t stop me throwing the odd social and linguistic spanner in the works.
A few days ago, I called up my workplace to tell my boss that I couldn’t work the next day. My boss never answers the phone, as he is always out the back, and I always have to be put on hold for ages by one of the girls up the front. But this particular time, it was he who picked up the phone, and it took me by such surprise, I instantly remarked with a warm-hearted enthusiasm about my stroke of luck “Ah, just the man I’m looking for!” and I think he, and my mother who was in the room with me, were quite taken aback. I found it more amusing than embarrassing actually. I’ll bet he told his boss about it.

I have also found myself talking about elections a great deal. Well, not lately of course; as it is all over, but spare a very belated thought to Barack Obama and the notion that people in America did the right thing for themselves and the world at large I feel. Smile; because as yet we simply have a hope, and not the good and the bad that actually comes with the reality.
But the reason I’m talking about politics is because a while back, my English Language teacher and I conversed about the suspicion that Brendan Nelson was about to be ousted as leader of the opposition, and that Malcolm Turnbull would take his place. And there was something almost empowering about being able to stand there after class and hold intelligent conversation about recent politics with an older educated person. Call me old fashioned, but I always saw being able to express political opinions as a mark of some sort of ‘aged and revered sensibility’; a mouthful not to be substituted by ‘maturity’. As it is not necessary to have any political interest in the course of maturity, nor are political men necessarily the most mature. To me a considered political opinion, no matter how out of line with your own, is one of the most subtle but effective ways of displaying an intellect. Of course I don’t like to be completely out of my depth with comparisons to events overseas and long before my time; but I do like to be able to debate the merits of the latest policy and political leaders. I do not profess to know a great deal about any of it; my knowledge only goes so far as having a basic grasp on the difference between left wing and right wing, in theory (in practice is another thing) and it’s nice to get the joke. It’s not so much as I really like politics; it’s certainly not something I would like to get involved in personally, but for some reason I have a certain appreciation for the significance of its discussion.

Manners, they’re a dying art form.



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