The idea of the college reunion suddenly struck me as a most dreadful one as I travelled with Raz towards college. There was presumably a pretty good reason for not staying in touch with 500 people you had last spoke to eight years ago. My point was reaffirmed by a chance meeting in a dull pub before the event. I was struggling to get out of the pub with my rucksack, when I was pressed against someone who looked vaguely familiar. Such was our proximity and inability to move that trying to pretend we hadn’t seen each other and to avoid the subsequent small talk was impossible.
It took me right back. My college was small and such passings in the ornate quadrangles were hard to avoid. It was like studying for a degree in small talk, which I’m sure I hadn’t signed up for. During winter I wore a balaclava to avoid such meetings. Eight years on in the pub doorway, we looked at each other. I kicked off,
“Hello Ros, how are you?”
“Great. It’s Tom, isn’t it?”
“Ron actually.”
“Oh yes. Are you going to the gaudy reunion?”
No. I always hang around in this dire pub opposite our old college.
“Yes, yes. I’ll see you in there.”
“Yes, yes”
This little piece of social lubrication freed us from our predicament, and we obviously didn’t speak a word all evening. I’ve got eight years to think up some better small talk. As Bauhaus said, “Small Talk Stinks“