Conversations with Strangers

A chat with a Whovian, being given the evil eye by a three year old, talking to footie fans, and meeting a member of the House of Lords; I believe in talking to strangers.

If there is one thing I've inherited from my mother, it's the ability to chat with strangers. She could stand at a bus stop for ten minutes, and learn the life stories of all the people in the queue.

A while ago, on a train to London, it was suddenly invaded by West Ham fans on their way to a match. Travelling alone as I was, a man sat in the seat beside me. Instead of recoiling into myself, I struck up a conversation and volunteered, as I always do in such a situation, that my daughters are season ticket holders for Gillingham FC. Gillingham is the limit of my football knowledge, but it opened up a conversation about intergenerational loyalties and match-going. My daughters started going to matches in their teens with their father. My travelling companion had also gone to see West Ham with his dad as a boy.

Sometimes these chats with footie fans on trains fall flat. Sat with a group of three young men one time, they seemed unkeen to keep up the conversation with this admittedly babbling older woman. The chatting is a sign of nerves. Some retreat into themselves; I get verbal diarrhoea. But if I catch one footie fan on their own, and get them talking, the journey flies by. For me, if not for them.

I spent a long time in an optician’s this week, investigating floaters in my right eye. I moved from one waiting area to another as eye pressure was tested, scans taken, then drops put in, giving time to marinate before the final examination. There was a grandad with his three-year-old charge in the first waiting area, looking up at a big screen with rolling information on eye and ear care. ‘You should ask for Peppa Pig,’ he said to the little one.

‘Do you like Peppa Pig?’ I asked her. She clammed up. ‘Oh, you’ve been told not to talk to strangers…’ I said.

‘I hate Peppa Pig,’ her grandad said with a deep sigh.

‘Paw Patrol, do you like Paw Patrol?’ I asked. The girl turned her head towards me and narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed. I was not giving up. ‘Which is your favourite in Paw Patrol? And she finally spoke: ‘The girl one.’

‘What’s her name?’ Nothing. The granddad proved a better bet. I steered him in the direction of Beat Bugs. ‘It’s got Beatles songs in it,’ I said. ‘When my granddaughter was small, she said, ‘Grandma, I found this programme called Beat Bugs, and it’s got music by a group called The Beatles. I think you’d like them.’ A laugh from Grandad, and then I was called to rest my chin on a piece of plastic, facing a machine with a single lens, and have air puffed in my eyes.

Next waiting area, there was a man in shorts with a large tattoo on his calf. ‘Is that the TARDIS?’ I asked.

‘Yes, and I have one on my T-shirt too.’

‘You’re a Whovian!’ I told my story about going to a Christmas party as a small child and the grotto was Doctor Who themed. ‘Patrick Troughton was there with his companions, Jamie and Zoe, and a couple of Daleks.’

‘Patrick Troughton is my favourite doctor,’ he said. He looked far too young to have seen it the first time round, but a Whovian is a Whovian.

‘I didn’t realise it was such a big deal at the time, meeting Doctor Who,’ I said.

‘I don’t like the new ones, prefer the old ones,’ he said.

‘None of them?’

‘Jodie Whittaker was alright, but not the latest.’ He didn’t like Ncuti, then? ‘No, and I don’t know what the next one will be like.’

‘Billie Piper. Yeah, that was a bit weird.’

‘Russell T… I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s a good writer, but it’s been Disneyfied.’

‘Hmm, yes. Lots of running around and special effects. But have you seen the lost episode? There was an old one found recently.’ He didn’t know about it, having been out of the country for four months. ‘It’ll be on iPlayer,’ I said. And then his dad came out of a nearby room. He was old enough to have seen Patrick Troughton as the Doctor the first time round. Perhaps the Doctor Who fixation was an intergenerational thing, like supporting the same football team. They departed, and I was left wondering what was the objection to the lovely Ncuti Gatwa?

I was in next. Drops dropped in and sent back to the waiting area. For a long time. The chap next to me was there a while, too. ‘Have you booked your holiday this year?’ he said, the hairdressers’ fall-back conversation starter. I wondered if he was a hairdresser.

‘Just a short holiday with the granddaughter in July. We’ve taken her away the last few summers. We’ve been to Suffolk and Dorset; this year we’re going to St. Leonards.’

‘Nice.’

‘And a short break in Ireland later in the year. Got relatives there.’

‘Hasn’t everybody?’ he laughed.

‘My mum and dad were Irish. Have you got Irish connections?’

‘Irish and Welsh.’

‘Well, we’re all Celts. What about you? Have you booked a holiday?’

‘We’ve already been to North Wales to stay with a couple we meet in Turkey every year. Beautiful place, where they live. Lovely house, and the views... Then we’re going to Turkey, and on Caribbean cruise in September. You been on a cruise?’

‘No.’ I don’t say that a cruise is my idea of holiday hell, along with coach holidays. ‘But my aunt, she’s still with us, she likes a cruise. Her son is a travel agent specialising in high-end holidays. He gets his mum and dad good deals.’ My name was called, and we waved goodbye.

All well with my eye, just a sign of age, bits of the vitreous material coming away, appearing in my vision. I don’t mind these age-related additions to my list of health problems; I’m glad to be around to experience them. I just hope that the age-related changes don’t lead to me going on a cruise.

I had a train journey to London last weekend, travelling with my husband, Bob. Sadly, no conversations with strangers, but I shall be going solo by train at the end of this week. I wonder who I might meet. Another train journey, with Bob, led to us meeting Nick, Lord Bourne of Aberystwyth, and being invited to tea at the House of Lords. Will it be footie fans, a member of the House of Lords or a three-year-old giving me the evil eye that I talk to?

The Doug Hudson Band, formerly The Hot Rats.

At the Sweeps Festival in Rochester during the May Day weekend, we were watching the Doug Hudson Band in a pub garden. Doug sings a song in Russian that we know as ‘Those Were the Days’, made famous by Mary Hopkins in the late ’60s. As it ended, a woman turned to me and said, ‘Those were the days. They’re not anymore.’ I couldn’t argue with that.