One afternoon while I was in the kitchen boiling water in a kettle, I was half-watching — half-listening to, rather — a reality show that was struggling to engage my attention to the full.
As the kettle began to whistle I proceeded to pour the boiling water over my teabag; then the voice of a matron with a stern stammer startled me: She was telling a girl something along the lines of "You should never, ever, show your wares to a man." At first half-listening, I was now into it.
I sat down with my infusion, and spent the next half-hour watching an etiquette coach (i.e. the matron in question) taking turns at advising or admonishing an unruly troop of girls, wherever they faltered in meeting the standards of social decorum.
In that particular episode of House of Hedsor Hall the girls were being advised on how to socially engage young men at parties. Indeed, following their instruction a party had been staged for them to enact the etiquette principles that they had learned. As a viewer I anticipated what followed next.
A few of the girls made progress and moved on to the next stage of coaching, while some of the others failed miserably! To the point where the candidates who fared the worst were ultimately asked to pack their things up and — you know! what that means...
For those who failed to continue in the show — as the coach had pointed it out to them — the fault rested squarely upon their shoulders …For getting drunk and showing their wares — unasked. Haha.
Every other afternoon, from that day on I found myself looking forward to these girls' next adventure — or set of mishaps, rather.
What would they do next (to embarrass themselves)?
Was the ever-present question in my mind: As I routinely paced my way through the stages of brewing the Passion-infused Ceylon that would keep me company during that half-hour in front of the telly!
A few weeks into this afternoon routine, a couple more questions began to dawn on me:
Was there any purpose in watching these episodes? What was it?
Once the honeymoon stage had ended, other than the morbid pleasure of watching random girls being ridiculed on syndicated television for being silly, I began to feel that there wasn't much else to look forward from them, long-term.
The fact that they fell prey to the same blunders time and again, that there seemed to be no learning curve on their part gradually eroded every bit of sympathy that I had initially felt for these girls.
Contrasting with the earliest sentiments I began to accept that they deserved every bit of contempt that befell them at the House. Though not on account of them being stupid — which, mind you, some of them appeared to be outright!
It was their lack of sensibility, their obliviousness of any humility when being corrected by their instructors, their indifference for being mindful of others, it was all these things together which ultimately irked me the most about them.
In her classic tome on the subject, Etiquette, American author Emily Post boils down the entire gospel of manners, anytime, anywhere, as the show of consideration towards others. To paraphrase her, more or less.
In keeping with this premise the unruly girls' gravest fault was not that they were unpolished in etiquette or stupid in their overall demeanor, but that some of them were not sensible, nor humble enough to admit it to themselves.
Arrogance cannot be atoned for with coaching of any length or quality. Elocution and deportment lessons do not cultivate sensibility either. Sensibility, along with humility are nurtured within a person's moral character.
Case in point.
I remember an evening in Reading in early 2013. I had gone to the cinema to watch Les Misérables. I think that it was on première night, I can't say for sure. The film ended, and I headed to the toilet before leaving the cinema.
There was an absurd queue to get in: Three people at a time could get in — but only after three others had walked out. As would be expected most of the time was spent on the queue, rather than actually using the facilities.
On my way out, the third of three, a scruffy young man tattooed throughout and clad in weathered leather walked in as I walked out. He stank — of nicotine, let alone some earthy tones which no perfume chemist would venture to bottle.
He thanked me as I held the door for him until he could grip the handle for himself. You're welcome! I said in reply. (Normally I don't say any more after being thanked, but merely nod.) He paused, turned around and said, Cheers!
Judging from appearance, this young man hardly seemed the type who would spend any time with an etiquette expert coaching him on how to respond to such a situation as this one played out. Yet he acted sensibly, and was gracious out of instinct.
I remember another afternoon that I spent at The Oracle. I was moving on the escalator, one floor up. Four-to-five steps ahead of me stood Arne, a friend of mine, holding hands with another bloke. Suddenly, they kissed. On the escalator.
Displaying affection in public is a matter of personal choice, and a couple's discretion towards either making show of it or not is nobody's business. That said, unless the impulse for displaying affection is genuine enough that it cannot be restrained:
As a courtesy, it is perhaps more sensible not to flaunt one's private joys publicly (often done to flatter one's ego!) when these aren't genuinely felt, for other people to witness.
Doing so may just serve to remind them that, in contrast to that of those lucky strangers promenading before their eyes, their own private lives are not as happy as they ought to be.
