Down at the car body shop. The bloke comes out. Short, combative-looking, fifty-ish, blue boiler-suit. I’m there in my Zoom trousers and my Decathlon overcoat. And with the blue-and-white bar-scarf round the neck. Which he clocks:
‘You a County fan then?’
‘Aye. What about you?’
A pause. Then, wryly (and from which we can take it to mean, he’s a City fan- they don’t really do United in this part of Stockport):
‘Well- neighbourly friendliness, let’s say’
A mis-step, that was on my part, though. The ‘Aye. What about you?’ bit. Because, according to the unwritten rules, the person speaking second doesn’t get to immediately ask the same question back. Instead the first person is supposed to have the opportunity to volunteer his alllegiance at his pleasure, or at least provide some information that invites the second person to divine it. As in:
‘Aye. Still getting over that cup-tie the other night, an’ all. We gave them a game mind, I’ll say that. You see it at all?’
‘Yous did OK. Shame yous got knocked out. Our lot were lucky. mind. 3-0 flattered them. Could have been a proper upset’.
‘Ah so you’re a City fan, then?’.
‘That’s right. For my sins. Thirty years and counting. Now- what needs doing here, anyway? Front passenger side wing, was it?’.
You see, I can imagine it, the way it was supposed to be. Getting the lines right in actual real time though- that I’ve never been able to get away with- not properly. The unwritten rules of bloke-conversation. Bloody hell.
Needless to say the rest of the conversation doesn’t really recover- not helped by a further of my many interesting neuroses, which is that as soon as anyone (and it doesn’t have to be a small combative City fan in a boiler suit, although that does exacerbate matters) starts talking about either the workings of automobiles or the labrynthine workings of car insurance etc, I just can’t follow the thread, and end up sounding stupid. Ten minutes in:
‘No mate, I think you’re confused. If you’re going through the Insurance, it’s the other way round. You’d want to get as much done as you can, to get the most back. See- I can do the basics for you, like I said-then I’d give you a quote for all that other stuff [insert reference to obscure car-body-parts here].. you get all that done on the insurance, see how much it sets you back- then we can sort something out between us- split the difference, see what I mean?’
I’ve got no idea what he means. Presumably something mutually financially beneficial and only slightly illicit cooked up between the two of us, at the expense of The Man.
‘A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse. Say that to him. Go on’.
All I can manage, though, is a non-committal mumble. In the finish, the bloke’s patience cracks:
‘Look mate, not being funny, but I’ve got a hundred-and-one things to do here. Tell you what- I’ll give you my card’.
Three hundred quid for a ‘straight cash job’, he’d said, before it got complicated. I’ll get another couple of quotes (if I can bring myself to face the ‘bloke conversation’ scenario again in further Stockport backstreets as yet to be determined). But then I’ll end up ringing up the number on the City bloke’s card, and taking him up on the offer. Not so much because I don’t want to have to call the insurance company (although I don’t). Just to avoid prolonging the embarrassment.
....
…
Earlier on. Walking back up the A6 after dropping the car off for its MOT (ie on the way home from the ‘normal’ garage, as opposed to the body-shop place they sent me to afterwards). A bloke with a dog, outside the florists. I reckon I vaguely recognise him- no, I definitely do- it’s old Clive, from the allotments. I’m flushed with the embarrassment-free bloke-conversation I’ve just managed to pull off in the MOT garage, so launch right in:
‘Clive!’
The bloke looks me up and down, slowly. Then:
‘I thought you were in Ibiza! (‘Eye-BEE-Tha’, he pronounces it. Whether with ironic intent, or because he thinks that’s actually an acceptable way of saying the name of the place, I can’t tell).
‘Er- why did you think I was in Ibiza?’
‘Ah hang on. Because I thought you were someone else. You’re not Duncan. Sorry ‘bout that’
‘No I’m not Duncan. No bother now. See you round’
He wasn’t old Clive from the allotments, either. Needless to say. As I scuttle off up the road I think of pointing that out to him. But he probably knows already. Whoever he is.
‘It’s fine. You’ll never see him again. Just keep walking. Head down. Round the corner here, and away’.
..,,
Even earlier on. I’ve got no Zoom meetings this morning, so I’m busying myself with the still-paltry flow of emails that are giving me something to do with my nine-to-fives cooped up in the spare room in the Zoom trousers. This one’s got a link on that I had asked for, to a community information page one of my colleagues has put together. Only it’s on Facebook. I’m not on Facebook, have never signed up, avoid the place at all costs (another interesting neurosis, I’ve been stockpiling them since March, like bags of pasta). Now though, a rush of blood to the head- I sign up, with my real name and work email.
‘Ah what the fuck. Who are all these people?’
Friend requests, is what they are. From random people who I’ve dealt with, dating back a dozen years, some of them. I start pressing ‘delete’ but they are coming through as fast as I can get rid of them. I’m feeling ridiculously stressed: right off the scale. Far more than a straightforward encounter with a social media platform should have any power to make me. It’s not any social media platform though- it’s That One. And for some reason that I can’t properly articulate, That One has always held a special dread for me. So- clicking desperately now, about the unfamiliar interface:
‘How do you delete this fucking thing?’
They don’t make it obvious, or easy, of course. Then when I do find out how to go about it and think the horror is over, a message:
‘Thank you Jonathan. Your account is scheduled for deletion, and this should take place within thirty days’
Which- in my now mind-racing/paranoid state, is no good to me whatsoever. Thirty days! In which for all kinds of people/ghosts from my past to come searching for me and wanting to make some kind of ghastly social-type connections. Friend requests- what are you even supposed to do with them? How would I possibly have the time? I’ve got so much to do! I’ve got to get my bloody car fixed, for a start.
Closing my eyes tight, I spread myself flat out on my back, diagonally across the spare room carpet, the head under the desk (this has become my standard stress-response during the COVID/Zoom times- usually it’s actually pretty effective, and the freedom to adopt it is one of the reasons I’m not in a hurry to get back to the office any time soon- this sort of behaviour, even from me, would be looked at askance. And would contravene some kind of post-COVID Health and Safety Regulations, into the bargain, I should not doubt). This time the calming effects take a while to kick in though. Ten minutes later I have actually stopped hyperventilating, at least. Logging back on- six more friend requests. This is getting bloody ridiculous. A couple of more deep breaths. What the hell is wrong with me?
‘It’s only a fucking web-page, Jonathan. Get a grip’.
After twenty more minutes of slightly calmer clicking around, I find a way of making it stop: ‘De-activating’ the account. Which, unlike, deleting it, takes effect straightaway. Your account still exists, but basically (or so they say)- nobody can find it, or you. Just as long as you stay absolutely still and instigate no social interaction at all, with anyone.
I should be fine with that. Actually you know what, it will suit me right down to the ground. I’ll just have a couple more minutes under the desk here, and I’ll be right as rain. Right as bloody rain.
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