I Remember You
Hmmm…awkward!There are entire TV series, books, whole newspapers, and certainly billions of blogs devoted to people ranting and raving about things that drive them up the wall. I tend to rant off stage rather than putting it all on record here, but the other day something that really does my head in happened.
Someone didn’t remember me when I remembered them.
I won’t go into detail, but this person should have remembered me. I directed him in a programme, for a few weeks, only three years ago. I think it’s acceptable that I should in saying, “Hello, how are you doing?” be in receipt of a “Hi, fine, nice to see you! How are you?” instead of a “Oh, now how do I know you???” quizzical stare and a bumbled attempt to place me, even after I’ve explained who I am in relation to them. I don’t particularly find it embarrassing and I don’t find it a blow to my ego- I just find it rude. If I remember you, you should remember me. It’s as simple as that.
Maybe it’s my peculiar problem because I always do remember people. I might not always remember names but I never forget anyone I’ve met. I just don’t. OK I can also remember a ridiculously unimportant amount of film trivia and plotlines from Coronation Street, but I don’t think I’m that unusual. I’m not exactly a circus freak.
It’s also not that I image change every five minutes like David Bowie, and I haven’t dramatically aged backwards like Benjamin Button. I have had the same hairstyle since time in memoriam and may even be wearing the same boots and clothes you saw me in ten years ago. Flares have been my jeans of choice since 1987. I haven’t even flirted with slimfit. There’s no excuse.
SO, if you get caught not remembering someone here’s my handy tips in not letting it show:
1. Pretend you do. “Hi, my goodness! How are you? Great to see you!” That works.
2. Smile instead of looking like someone has just whacked you on the cheeks with a three day old fish.
3.Ask enthusiastic questions the answers to which may give you clues but won’t look like that’s what you are doing “Wow, you’re looking great! So what are you doing now?”, or, “Gosh, when would we last have seen each other? Let me think…ages ago!”
Never say:
“Christ! Who are the blazes are you?”
“Nah, still not placing you…”
“Should I know you?”
“I’m sorry, I meet so many people…..”
“Did we…did we…you know?
“Help! Security!”
All of those make you look like an arse. And contrary to newspaper reports last week that medication and surgery may soon be developed that can help erase painful memories, the science isn’t there yet. So don’t try the old, “Sorry, I had brain surgery that help remove painful memories and you must have got wiped as part of that”. No one’s falling for that old chestnut.
So there it is. It’s right up there in the pantheon of Things That Annoy Misssy, along with litter dropping, not indicating, incorrect use of apostrophes and using the F Word as a gap filling tool in sentences.
People forgetting you. It’s rude. Make an effort.
Otherwise, forget about it.
Don’t ever miss a Misssive, subscribe!
Flakes on a Plane
The tenuous excuse I’ve beenwaiting for to post this photo
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I were an extremely rude person devoid of manners but at the same time full of my own importance. I’ve a feeling that it might be sensational.
Your rudeness would take people by surprise and as a result you would usually get whatever it was you wanted, even if you looked like an arsehole getting it. But you wouldn’t care about that, you’re too self-unaware. How liberating to not give two hoots?
The reason I’m thinking about this is that I’m thinking about a woman that I sat next to on an airplane recently. She is an air steward’s nightmare; the high maintenance passenger. My family are sat behind me in a row of three and I am cast adrift one row in front beside Princess, who I immediately assume is clearly unused to having to share anything, which is why she blanks me when I say “Excuse me!” three times in an attempt to squeeze past her into my window seat. (Woohoo! Window seat! Dancer!)
Our twenty something anti-heroine is on the phone chatting loudly. She is describing her situation at this exact moment to her call recipient, as people tend to do on mobile phones, and I’m half expecting her to say, “Yes, I am on the plane, it is dark outside so I don’t care I’ve not got the window seat and there is a woman hovering two inches above me making squeaking noises but she might go away if don’t look at her.”
She chats away and ignores all three polite requests from me to move her ass. For my fourth attempt, I say, “Hi, hello, that’s my seat over there, I need to get into it. Could you move over , please”. Reluctantly, she raises her gaze slowly towards me and, still continuing her conversation, moves her knees to the side. Now anyone who’s been on a BA flight to Aberdeen from London knows that there is not enough space between one’s knees and any other surface present to allow a person to skip past. I look at her knees and then back at her face with a silent ”You are kidding me, Precious, aren’t you?” thought bubble just above my hair.
Wonder of wonders, the still chatting woman huffs a bit and actually gets up into the aisle, and I am able to get to my seat. For the first time in my personal history I am hoping for another person to occupy the empty seat next to me so that I do not have to be the person in closest proximity to the Princess. But this doesn’t happen. The flight is only 1 hour 15 minutes but once someone bugs you, they bug you and nothing is going to change that. A steward comes over and asks her to switch off her phone. She does not acknowledge his presence in any way, but after he has gone, she ends her call. I note from this action that she is aware of an existence outwith herself and therefore can be held fully accountable for being a pain in the ass. Her condition is not a medical one.
The plane takes off and she boredly and noisily flicks through, without reading or even glancing at every single page of the inflight magazine. I have to put my Walkman on to muffle the noise of the pages being palm-slapped and then whooshed over in dramatic fashion.
The drinks cart arrives. “Two cans of Coke” are ordered by Princess without so much as a please or thank you. I ask for a Hemlock and Cranberry with a twist but they only have Gin and Tonic which’ll have to do.
Meeester catches my eye in a ”what the blazes is she like?” type eyebrow manoeuvre. He is living it large with Indy and Junior Misssy behind me, who are not as annoying as Princess despite being up a bit late and having had a whole host of E numbers by way of a sweetie or two at Heathrow.
Dinner arrives. Princess unwraps her food and immediately wolfs her bread roll. As the steward moves off, she calls him back. “I need more bread” she says.
Our steward says that he’ll have to see how many meals are left with an internal additional monologue of “because this isn’t a fucking restaurant, girly, and I’m still serving other people if you hadn’t noticed” apparent in his trained forced smile.
The steward then does the same eyebrow manoeuvre to me that Meeester has done previously, and, just like that, we’ve connected in our distaste for Princess. I know he’s going to save me first if there’s a crash situation. I’m sorted. I smile knowingly to myself as if I’m one of the passengers that makes it to the island from Flight 815 in Lost.
Ten minutes later the returns with a flourish and a genius display of barely restrained passive aggression. Princess is presented with a second bread roll.
“Here’s your extra bread madam. Now, have you got everything that you want?”
“Yes, thanks”
“You sure you’ve got everything?”
“Yes.”
“You like two of everything, don’t you madam?”
“Ha, yes”, she says, “Hmmm. Yes, he, he”in a Yes, I’m a Scream Aren’t I? type of a way.
Self awareness function-engage!
“Just so you know, I don’t think I can manage a second plane for you, madam.”
The steward winks to me out of sight of Princess.
Yeah, he’s definitely going to save me over her.
You’re toast, Princess.
Don’t ever miss a Misssive, subscribe!
