A "LINGERING" DISEASE

Evening Post, Volume CXXVI, Issue 116, 12 November 1938, Page 19

A "LINGERING" DISEASE

Who has not at some time or other I suffered .from the vacillations. of that I most obnoxious of social pests, the guest who outstays his welcome? asks a social writer in the "Sydney Morning Herald." I myself have mentally, murdered hundreds while preserving outwardly a mask of politeness and bonhomie, with my primitive urge to kill increasing with every moment of their doorstep vacillations. A BAD CASE. Here is a case in point of one who suffers from this disease of lingering in its most virulent form. He is most welcome when he first presents himself, and, being a good conversationalist, several hours pass by with both of us enjoying expounding our various viewpoints on world affairs and even in listening to those of the other. Supper over, however, and the hands of the clock pointing to eleven, I begin to experience that sinking feeling peculiar to these occasions as I realise that the ordeal of departure is about to commence. The procedure never varies very much. My friend glances at the clock, "By Jove, eleven o'clock already, I must go—no idea it was so late." He accompanies this with a half-rising motion performed with a fair degree of acceleration, then very slowly lowers himself into the chair again. : Follows about ten minutes of further desultory conversation,, and the sufferer (for I firmly believe he suffers equally with myself during this painful ordeal), with a tremendous effort of will, rises sharply, and with decisive footsteps walks to his hat, seizes it, and faces about. The very decisiveness of the action has, however, visibly undermined his morale, and, with faltering steps, he returns. Determined to give him all the help

in our power, my. wife and I have risen to our feet and edged towards the door, cutting off at the same time any approach to the vacated chair. AI seemingly interminable period now elapses, the unfortunate wretch in a pitiable condition alternating his hand | from the door handle to his pocket, and occasionally weaving it through the air as though groping for a final—definitely final —sentence. DILEMMA ON THE DOORSTEP. The next stage is responsible for a further delay. It is the stage when, with a fine attempt to regain his lost determination, the sufferer seizes the door handle in a firm grip and pulls the" door half open, giving a perfect imitation of a guest who is really de-l

WEARING OUT A WELCOME

[parting. We are not deceived, howI ever. Imitation it is, nothing more. Two to three minutes of this play acting and our, by this time, , mortal enemy, remembers his pipe, which he has left lying on the mantelpiece, and now the door is closed, and we have the whole wearisome business over again. ■ But you are all familiar with this unfortunate in his various forms, and his female counterpart is only a shade less obnoxious. IS IT CURABLE? The point to be arrived at is what cure is there for this malady? Surreptitious yawns, and covert glances at the clock are quite useless, for bear in mind our guest really thinks he is departing—really desires to depart. He simply lacks the moral purpose to stand up firmly, seize his hat, extend his right hand, say good-night, and take his departure, a proceeding which can be accomplished in all its stages in two minutes.. I have heard of no solution that stops short of actual rudeness, and I will suffer many hours of torment before resorting to this final remedy. AMBULATORY CASES. A species of disease closely akin to that described in the foregoing is manifested when one meets a'casual acquaintance in the street. He stops •and extends his hand—"Well, how are you, old nian? Hayen't seen you for ages." •You reply suitably and inquire after his health. This matter disposed of,you both search your minds vainly for a topic of conversation of mutual interest. In desperation you fall back on the weather. After five minutes of. your mutually valuable time being taken up in profitless discussion on whether it is likely to rain tomorrow and hackneyed comment on what a beautiful day it was yesterday, you make your escape determined to get in first next time with your: "Sorry, 1 can't stop. Running late for an appointment." I I have one acquaintance only who faces this problem squarely, and he accomplishes it by virtue of his reputation of being "slightly queer." j He passes you in the street. He stops. j He inquires after your health. So far he conforms to the conventional, but [his conventionality goes no. further. If he has anything to say of interest, he says it. Follows a pause of just sufficient duration to allow of my replying, pertinently, 'and if my reply does not come within the allotted j period he turns abruptly, presents his back, and'marches off, his good-bye reaching you from a distance of three or four paces. No groping for a suitable sentence to terminate the conversation. No "Well, ah, I expect I had. better be getting along." No wretched shuffling from one foot to the other. Just a clean break with no chance of the other party indulging in these pitiful manoeuvres. SUCH "SWEET" SORROW. I am, however, a conventional soul. I do not desire to be thought "queer," and I cannot bring myself to be rude. Maybe I lack the moral fibre, the qualities that go to make up the Hitlers and Mussolinis of this world, so I shall continue to bear my cross with fortitude until some psychologist confers the inestimable benefit off mankind of discovering a cure. Shakespeare said, "Parting is such sweet sorrow." One wonders if the adjective was not misplaced.