How to offend people (and other life lessons)

A weird thing keeps happening. A few times recently I have vastly underestimated a person’s achievements or expertise in a certain field.

Eg, to a newish friend in a group we belong to: ‘Can you knit, Sarah?’

Sarah: ‘Well, yes, I can. I lectured in printed and knitted textiles at xxx’ (i.e., one of the most prestigious art schools in the whole world).

Chatting with another (newish) friend, Maggie, about our mutual enjoyment of swimming. ‘I can’t do crawl though,’ I admitted. ‘I can’t breathe and do my arms and legs in the right way all at the same time. Can you?’

Maggie: ‘Er, well, I swam competitively all through my teens, for the county team and then at national level. If I’d carried on, next step would have been the Olympics.’

Then one night I was at a friend’s dinner. You know when you look around a table and there are all these new, fascinating and fun-seeming people and you’re trapped next to someone with a big stern face like a paving slab who barely utters a word? Not because they’re shy, but because they don’t want to talk to you.

I tried and tried to find anything that might a spark a conversation. Until he mentioned to someone across the table that he had some apple trees.

Me, leaping on this like a terrier spotting a glistening steak lying in the road: ‘Oh, apple trees! Wow! How many d’you have?’

Man, dryly: ‘About sixteen thousand.’

‘I have sixteen thousand trees you goon’

My default thing is to assume everyone is bumbling along, doing things at a hobbyist level. Because the signals are never obvious. How was I to know this man owned huge orchards, operating on an industrial scale? Why couldn’t he have announced, ‘I’m a vastly important cider man’ at the start? That would have been interesting. I could have told him about guzzling so much cider at a house party in 1984 that I chased a drummer I fancied down the street and later woke up with my head in an ashtray and have never been able to stomach the stuff since.

‘Does cider make people actually mad?’ I wanted to ask him. ‘Do you slosh the stuff down your throat every night?’

It’s dangerous territory. I realise now that if a man happens to say he likes baking, and I say, ‘Oh, d’you manage to make your cakes rise?’ he will glare at me and say ‘I’M DR OETKER YOU FOOL.’

‘Don’t you know who I am?

I fear running into Tracy Emin at an exhibition and saying, ‘Do you paint at all?’ Or Elton John and asking, ‘D’you play an instrument?’ Another problem is that I never recognise famous people. Literally never. I think the only person I’d be able to identify in the street is Madonna. And even then I’d think, ‘Wow, she looks just like Madonna.’

But the main problem is, people tend to play down what they do, for fear of boasting. When we lived in a small Scottish country town I belonged to a women’s writing group, which I loved, and which I found supportive and inspiring and brilliant. Twice a month for fifteen years we wrote together fuelled by copious wine. We were - and still are - great friends.

The other thing we did was bring pieces of writing along to share with the group. But before we read anything out we’d say:

‘Sorry. This really is a pile of crap. Can you bear for me to read it to you?’

It never was - all the women were talented writers. One was a Costa poetry prize winner, for goodness’ sake! But we felt we had to say it to avoid seeming even slightly pleased with ourselves. I think writers are particularly obsessed with playing things down, as if there’s something slightly embarrassing about staring at your laptop all day, fiddling with words.

And people can be weird, when you say you’re an author. They say things like, ‘Ah, yes, book publishing. It’s all about WHO you know.’ (It’s really not!)

My mum had a terrifying neighbour. She was about six foot two with a slash of burgundy lipstick and silvery hair set rock hard in a kind of helmet style.

Mum explained that I was an author. ‘Oh,’ the woman bellowed. ‘SHOULD I HAVE HEARD OF YOU?’

‘Erm, I’m not sure! Probably not, haha,’ I wittered.

‘Have you had anything PUBLISHED?’

‘Er, a few books, yes…’

‘I’ve often thought of writing a book.’ She stared at me in a challenging way as if to say, ‘How hard can it be if an idiot like you can do it?’

‘You say your write books? Wait until you read MY book!’

‘What would your book be about?’ I asked.

‘Well, obviously,’ she blustered, ‘my LIFE.’

‘Oh! Great. I’d love to read it!’ And then I ran away.

As did the apple tree man when I approached him later in the evening, all revved up to grill him about saplings and pruning and suchlike. Damn my ‘please like me!’ gene. My aim was to force the man to talk to me, as a kind of challenge to myself.

So now, what I do when I meet someone is assume they are a genius. If someone says they’re an actor I don’t say, ‘Oh, are you in a local theatre group?’ Because someone might pull me away and hiss, ‘That’s Cate Blanchett you berk!’

‘I act little, yes.’

And if someone says they have apple trees I will assume they own the whole of Kent!

D’you have these kind of putting-your-clodding-great-foot-in-it moments? Please share them in the comments.

Before I go I will boast (agh!) that my latest novel, The Man I Met on Holiday, has racked up over 400 reviews - averaging 4.5 stars. You can grab a copy here! It’s full of fun and love and laughter - but don’t tell my mum’s scary neighbour that. Because when I explained that I write romantic comedy she curled her lip and said, witheringly, ‘Well, I suppose someone has to.’

Love,

Fiona x