ME AND THE GENTLE ART

Northern Advocate, 13 June 1936, Page 1 (Supplement)

ME AND THE GENTLE ART

Once In A Lifetime

rpHE gentle art of conversation seems to come easily to many. It has me properly “knocked.” I cannot make even the weather sound interesting, and my small talk with strangers is a series of painful silences, broken by a few throaty gurgles on my part.

Sue, on the other hand, is one of the many, and her sallies on any subject from baking to botany are sparkling. From those facts you would deduce that the chatter round the family circle is a dissertation by Sue, punctuated with “urns” and “ahs” and nods from me. Very often it is. But there are times when Sue considers that she should save her palaver for the more important people, and she looks to me to do the verbal entertaining.

AN EYE ON THE THRILLER. In the past, however, my attempts have been poor, and I have talked in dreamy monosyllables, with a reluctant eye on the detective thriller posed invitingly on the mantelpiece. After a few minutes, I throw a furtive glance at Sue, cough nervously, and reach surreptitiously for the novel. Usually by the time Sue has awakened to the fact that I am not talking, I am buried deep in the problem of why Sir John murdered Lady Angela, and Sue, knowing that further efforts are useless, takes out her sewing and] goes to sleep. w With everything calm, the fire crackling in the grate, and Sue breathing rhythmically, and sometimes loudly, I get my ears back and rush through the mass of clues and deductions, only to find that Sir John was not the murderer .after all, and that the villain was Lady Angela’s ex-lover. With a sigh, I put down the book, awaken Sue to the fact that it is bedtime, and trundle off to bed with the feeling of having spent a great evening.

THEN I WANT TO TALK. And then, perversely enough, I begin to feel I want to talk, and it is now Sue’s turn to mumble unintelligible nothings, and flnaly to tell me to keep quiet, as she. wants to go to sleep,, Strange, isn’t it? When I want to read a book, Sue wants to talk. When I want to talk, she wants to go to sleep! Funny how these things cannot be regulated! Occasionally, believe it or not, I feel like, holding the floor, but my breezy comments on the comings and goings of the day usually find Sue with a headache, or too busy to listen. Even then I cannot be suppressed until a sharp, “Oh, do be quiet!” stops the flow, and sends me scuttling back into my shell, and each time it is harder to come out again. At one stage, I developed a slight deafness, with which I could usually strike up a conversation with strangers. Interrupting their stream of conversation with a fire of “What’s,” “I beg your pardons,” and ‘l’m afraid I can’t catch you,’ I seldom failed to draw the remark: “You seem to be a trifle deaf.” THE DEAF STORY. That was my cue. I pinned the unfortunate by the top button of his waistcoat or by the arm, as the case was, and poured into their ears a troubled story of just how inconveni-

ent it was to be a trifle deaf—which, of course, I wasn’t. After about five minutes or so they had had enough, and simply sprinkled away, but I felt that I had done my bit to keep the conversation rolling. But I lay myself open to an appendix or rheumatism attack.

By the *‘Boob”

One night some chappie rounded on me with a devastating account of the trials and tribulations of corns. After the first five minutes I began to wish that I were really deaf. With ten minutes gone, during which he had merely introduced the subject, as it were, I began to get desperate. Fortunately, after twenty minutes without Sue appearing on the horizon, and just as I was thinking all was lost, I was

relieved by a dancer who got off the beaten track, and mistook my informant’s foot for that of his partner. HELP WANTED. As he hobbled to a chair, I made my escape, but ran into the arms of another, . who began, thoughtfully shouting: “And talking of deafness reminds me ” “Sorry, old chap,’’ I gasped, “I’ve got this dance.” , .V I could see that lay was no good, and for a period I went into recess, as it were, and for a time my reputation as a good listener soared. I am now at the peak as far as listening is concerned, but we are having a party at our place tomorrow evening, and Sue has warned me that I must play the host to perfection. How is that done?

I will be eternally grateful if someone social will send me along a few headings from which I can develop a little conversation.