The Stranger Syndrome

Wherever I go, complete strangers feel the need to talk complete and utter bullshit to me.
Doesn’t matter where I am, or indeed what I’m doing.
Clearly, I like talking to people, but there is a requirement that those people have to be sane.

I was waiting for a friend of mine the other day.

So there I was, sitting in the pub – I had my MP3 player on, newspaper in hand, and this old bloke plonks himself at my table.

As I looked up from the sports pages, I saw his lips move, so with great reluctance I put my paper down, turned off the music.

He said, “You’re not from round here, are you?”

He interrupted me reading the paper to ask that?

Nevertheless, being the polite individual that I am, I told him no, even though I’ve lived in this area for over 10 years, I was originally from Tottenham.

He asked me how I was finding it.
I considered telling him that no one had put a burning cross on my lawn, but refrained.

Fine, was my reply. I’d actually put my earphones back in, when he asked where my parents were from.
Jamaica, I told him.
Wishing he’d fuck off to another table.

Now don’t get me wrong, antisocial I am not, but this tedious conversation went on for about 15 minutes, only ending when my mate turned up, enquiring who my new “friend” was.

I’ve been told I have that kind of face, and yeah, I’ll concede that I don’t walk around frowning, but I wish that random crazy people would just stop talking to me.
There is a danger of me becoming a hermit…

Copyright © Mark A. McPherson 2012.
All rights reserved

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