Why small talk has me stumped

8:41am Tuesday 19th February 2008

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THE art of conversation is often pronounced dead, but in my case it was stillborn.

Whether it's dinner table, networking, chit-chat or chat-up, the all-important skill of small talk has passed me by.

I know some of the rules of the game, but tend to forget them at crucial moments. I veer from awkward silences to suddenly holding forth on an issue for far too long - usually signalled by the glazed appearance of the unfortunate person opposite me.

Another golden rule of small talk is, of course, that if someone asks how you are, they don't really want to know. Unless you're speaking to a doctor, the correct response is something like: "Oh, I'm fine," and definitely not providing a comprehensive health bulletin.

Simple, isn't it? But I keep forgetting, and burdening others with the latest on any ailment I may have.

That said, I have an excuse of sorts for the last time this happened. I was at a supermarket checkout when the pleasant young woman behind it wished me a good morning, and asked how I was.

Before I could stop myself, I replied (truthfully): "Oh, I'm full of cold," before seeing her look of surprise and trying, Basil Fawlty-like, to cover my mistake with: "And isn't it a cold day today?"

I think I just about got away with it.

But the reason I made this basic error was that the girl had herself broken one of the golden rules of supermarket checkout conversation - she greeted me and asked how I was as though she really meant it.

This is just not the done thing; everyone knows you have a set of phrases ands responses you run through automatically and then get on with the transaction.

As it happens, one of the things I quite appreciate about supermarket shopping, strange as it may seem, is its impersonal nature - that and the speed and convenience of having most of what you need gathered under one roof, despite the latest revelations about the supermarkets' downside, with the competition watchdog saying the big stores are gobbling up land at such a rate other shops don't stand a chance.

So, on one side you have twinges to the conscience about the demise of the traditional high street. On the other, in supermarkets you get what you want, and as long as you can pay for it nobody much cares what you're actually taking home with you. No one looks in your trolley and notes that you're stocking up on fatty chocolate biscuits or comments on how many lazy microwave meals you've bought. It's off home with your goodies, and no questions asked.

Well, at least that's true most of the time. I suspect I was far from alone in my surprise when I read about Tesco instructing staff at its Askham Bar store to require ID from anyone trying to buy alcohol who looks younger than 30.

It may make more sense than selling booze to mature looking 13-year-olds, or demanding a man in his 80s prove he is over 18 (and that has happened at a different York store, as readers may recall). But still, it seems a bit extreme that people who have been legally able to buy booze for more than a decade have to take their driving licence or passport with them whenever they fancy taking a few cans home.

Not that I need worry. A few years ago I visited New York, and was surprised to see the couple I stayed with, who were both 30-somethings, producing their ID to the man on the door of a Manhattan bar.

The husband then jerked his thumb in my direction, and said: "Watch out for this guy here, though - he's only 17."

The doorkeeper didn't even give me a second glance, but just snorted: "Ha!" I don't think I've ever heard so much contempt injected into a single syllable. He was obviously another who'd never bothered much with the art of conversation.