The Lost Art of Conversation

Anyone who invites Hamilton Coe for a meal can rest assured that responsibility for the evening's success will be a shared one. I'm not the sort of person who simply turns up expecting to be fed and entertained. As a cook, my oeuvre is straightforward but extensive and I'll willingly supplement the host's efforts with my special mash or my mulligatawny soup. My primary social gift, though, is as a bon viveur. The art of the conversationalist has been eroded by modern tendencies to monomania and self-interest. "You're not on This is Your Life," my Grandpa Sneddon would interject if anyone threatened to monopolise a gathering by droning on about the minutiae of his day to day existence or blowing his trumpet about some achievement in which no sane person could be expected to take the slightest interest. Grandpa, who made a lifelong study of social strategies, conducted conversations with the subtle skills of a great conductor. I was a willing pupil. It was Grandpa Sneddon who first encouraged me to write down jokes and anecdotes to use as icebreakers. Consequently, I have one for every conceivable situation, written down in thirty leather bound journals. Having instigated a discussion, of course, the accomplished conversationalist allows others to participate. Few things are more tiresome than the misplaced confidence of the dullard who imagines himself to be a raconteur.

Another technique I learned from Grandpa Sneddon, one which continues to elicit Spencer's particular scorn, is to take the effort to remember things about people. Obviously, a good memory is an invaluable asset to any kind of investigator, but it's also a social skill. Today people tend to be self-absorbed. Why should a busy businessman remember a waitress's name or hairstyle? Unless she's particularly attractive, he barely even looks at her. She serves no purpose other than to serve his food speedily and without spillage. I know the name of every waitress within a thirty mile radius of Drumfeld! Within seconds of entering an establishment, I can tell if any staff member has changed her hairstyle, bought new shoes or lost weight. People like to be remembered, so I then make a point of telling them. For some reason, when I'm with Spencer, which, admittedly, isn't a regular occurrence, this never fails to prompt groans and apologies. “Nobody wants you to notice them,” he says, a point of view one might expect from someone who recognises nobody's needs but his own. Of course, someone in Spencer's position, who frequently neglects to shave and exhibits various tell-tale symptoms of a recent debauch might not want to be noticed. It's a habit of nonentity, I find, to project our own preferences onto everyone else.

My natural instinct to reach out to people is, unfortunately, frustrated by a lack of opportunity. Drumfeld is a small town: its social life tends to revolve around evenings in the Red Lion which, for a teetotaller such as myself, are extremely tedious. "Why didn't you ask me?" I often find myself demanding on hearing about some dinner party or games night. As a single person, people seem to assume that I'll be bored by conversations monopolised by issues pertaining to relationships and children. Nothing could be further from the truth! Recent acquaintances, I suspect, are often surprised by the enthusiasm with which I set about tackling their various crises. According to the creed of Coe, a friend in need is a work in progress! If someone mentions being troubled by insomnia (for example) I'll make a mental note to drop by with some helpful literature or my 'Good Night's Sleep.... With Hamilton Coe' auto-suggestion cassette. My international reputation as an investigator, I suppose, might intimidate some potential hosts: "What if he notices your lapsed tax disc?" To these fears I can only reiterate that discretion is the first prerequisite of an effective detective. The occasions on which I've been compelled to investigate a fellow dinner party guest have been few and far between.

With this in mind, I'm sure the reader can appreciate the importance of my Sunday evenings at Christine's. The Coe family Sunday has always been an inclusive affair: my mother nurtured a large extended 'family' and Christine has inherited the same values. Recently, however, this has entailed the nurturing of Muriel's 'friend' Rhys who has insinuated himself at my sister's table with the diligence of dry rot. "Doesn't he have a home to go to?" I asked Christine yesterday as his pale face appeared at the kitchen window. "Don't you?" snapped Muriel. This, unfortunately, set the tone for a strained evening. Rhys (upon whom nobody has impressed the courtesy of eating what's put in front of you) responded to my cream of celery soup with an expression of disgust more appropriate to the slow motion repeat of a particularly gruesome football injury. "Rhys doesn't like celery," said Muriel. Her explanation was unnecessary. Rhys doesn't like anything except for chips, chicken and beans, portions of which Christine had especially put aside in anticipation of his arrival. "Would you like someone to cut the chicken up for you?" I asked, prompting Muriel to shoot me a glance of intemperate loathing.

One of Grandpa Sneddon's conversational tricks was to anticipate a probable topic and research it. This week, for example, I thought it likely that the Olympics might merit at least a passing mention and had honed up on relevant points of interest. Having embarked on an account of the famous 1908 marathon at the conclusion of which Dorondo Pietri was assisted over the line by none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I was intensely irritated to be interrupted by Muriel's muttered but clearly audible "Why is this interesting?" Rather than rise to the bait, I continued eating in silence. Later, returning from the toilet, I paused outside the dining room to hear Muriel repeating the story in a voice sonorous with feigned idiocy. "And who should have been passing but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the creator of Sherlock Holmes!" As I re-entered the room Muriel and Rhys both snorted cola through their nostrils. "I don't think I'll bother with coffee tonight," I said with as much dignity as I could muster. "I've a terrible headache." Gathering my things, I avoided looking at Muriel, but I was aware of her violently shuddering in an agony of suppressed mirth.

 

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