by Maeve Binchy
At a time that has always been meant to be one of peace and goodwill, they should realise that most people are normal and that their friends are bound to be normal and not human calculators, counting the gifts in and counting them out. If they have anything to spend, let them spend it on their children or on other people’s children.
They probably know all this already but in a welter of Christmas over-excitement, with the place coming down with advertisements for luxury gifts, I urge them to remember it. Friends who cease to be friends because they don’t get a pop-up toaster, or something with a plug on it, deserve to be discarded in early December.
Off Target
“We tell people if they have spinach on their teeth, why not
tell a woman if she has lipstick in her moustache?”
There’s this woman who used to be a real smasher some years ago. Although she was used to being admired, she wasn’t a peacock or anything. About ten years ago, when she was in her late 60s, we had lunch in a smartish place and she asked the waiter if he would go out and get her an evening paper because she wanted to look something up. And the waiter quite courteously said no he couldn’t. She sighed and without any affectation said to me, “I forget I’m not beautiful any more.”
It was as natural as saying you weren’t a teacher any more, or didn’t have an account in such-and-such a bank any longer. She had been so accustomed to smiling and dazzling people into doing things for her by sheer good looks. I said that she was still beautiful and she asked me a favour. If ever she started to look ridiculous, would I tell her?
She wasn’t choosing the most sensitive and discerning of people to advise her in this regard, and I told her this. My idea of ridiculous might not be spot-on. But anyway, I said I’d do it if I noticed, and she seemed pleased.
Now she is in her late 70s, her marbles are in great order but her sight is very poor. She is throwing make-up at her face, and mainly missing. There’s a big red gash in the area of her mouth and she puts that very bright blue eyeshadow on with a heavy finger. And as a result she looks terrible.
People speak of her sadly. She used to be so lovely, they say, and isn’t it tragic to see her trying to make herself up as if she were still young and attractive?
I don’t think this is what she is doing. It’s not a question of disguising mutton as lamb or anything. It’s just that she can’t see it. I can’t bear for her to think that she looks great because she has put on the war paint and for it to have misfired as badly as it has.
If you saw someone with their dress tucked in their knickers, you would tell them, wouldn’t you? It’s not the way people are expected to emerge from the Ladies. And the sooner you tell them the better, there will have been less of an audience for the spectacle.
So in theory it’s simple. You tell her. And say that you think the hand that applied the foundation may have been a bit heavy and the light in these places is monstrous, they should be prosecuted for not having kinder shadows for us to lurk in. And you change the subject sharpish.
But wait a minute. Her face was what people knew her for. She might think it still more or less is. You might destroy her self-confidence, and the gutsy spirit that allows her to lather on all this stuff. l remember well some thundering bitch saying to me, “Oh I am sorry. Did we come to collect you before you got ready?” And I was ready. This was as good as it got. It’s seven years ago and I remember it still.
And does it matter that she looks like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Amn’t I the one who’s always saying that only fools judge people by appearances? And remember the tiresome neighbour in London who says “I speak as I find” and, unfortunately, she almost always finds something unpleasant?
Is there an argument for forgetting to be the arbiter of elegance and ignoring it? After all, I am somewhat cosmetically challenged myself in terms of blusher and lip-gloss. Have I the right at all to mention anyone else’s attempts?
And is it taking a chance remark, made a decade ago, a trifle too seriously if I say that I promised I would tell her? This wasn’t some oath – marked by the exchange of blood. Almost certainly she has forgotten the request and my pompous delivery of the promised advice might come as a very unwelcome bit of news.
You could talk yourself out of it with ease. Why invite hassle, why criticise and upset? Why disturb, gratuitously, another person’s equilibrium?
But. And it’s a big but. It’s not telling her that she is old and trying to alter the natural progress of time. It’s trying to cope with the fact that she can’t see the dog’s dinner she has made of the face that was so important. If she were 18 and had partial blindness nobody would hesitate about telling her that her hand had slipped. We would see it as a normal courtesy, as you would raise your voice for someone deaf, or move a chair out of the way of someone with a white stick.
This woman, who could literally make people turn around and look at her, should not be allowed to have a moustache unless she knows she has one and has decided – to hell with it. She doesn’t have sisters and she doesn’t have daughters. The normal chain of over-honest response is not there.
With less lipstick and a little grey eyeshadow she would look lovely. The bones of her beautiful serene face would be a pleasure to look at. She is not trying to pretend that she is approaching 50 rather than 80, she is dressing up in the way she dressed in her 40s and 50s, and without being able to see that it isn’t working.
I got tired of people telling her how marvellous she looked, and then saying afterwards how sad it was to see her looking so gaudy and lurid. She may have many good years ahead, why must she try to read the sounds and try to interpret them without the information she needs? We tell people if they have spinach on their teeth, why not tell a woman she has lipstick in her moustache? I advise myself to tell her. Without apology, without reminding her that she did once ask me to keep her informed of any alterations.
She will not read this so it’s not a question of doing it by stealth. I don’t think it would be better to give her a voucher for a marvellous friend I have who runs a beauty salon. That’s being even more patronising. I advise myself to tell her quickly and casually because what is being told is in fact not at all important. But what is important is the motivation and reaction of those who wish to give dignity and fear giving offence.
Fighting Shy
“If they have opted to stay in the human race, they can damn well greet people and be greeted without making some kind of virtue of Not Being Good In Social Surroundings”
Shy people say they don’t understand extroverts. The people who define themselves as being shy say that it’s all right for the rest of us. This makes me very cross. It’s never all right for anyone. People have to make it all right. Those who smile apologetically and say that they are rather antisocial deserve a cuff in the ear, not sympathy. If they are antisocial, then why aren’t they sitting out in a desert somewhere, eating low calorie locusts and honey and doing the hermit number in style? If they have opted to stay in the human race, they can damn well greet people and be greeted without making some kind of virtue Of Not Being Good In Social Surroundings.
Right. Now we know where we all stand.
So anyway, I got this letter from a woman who was going to a book launch. She had never been to one before, but the author had rented a flat from her while he was writing the book, and he had included her in the invitation list. She was both thrilled and terrified by the invitation. It crossed her mind to write to me.
Her friend said I was the last person she should write to because I hated etiquette books and would probably tell her to act naturally. But, she said, she didn’t know what was “naturally” for this occasion, so could I be a bit specific?
I gave this a lot of thought, mainly because I wanted to prove her Doubting Thomas of a friend wrong, and also because she’s right. It’s useless to tell people to “be themselves”. It just doesn’t work. When you’re at a loss in a place, you forget who you are.
Or e
lse there are too many versions of yourself that come to mind and you wonder which persona to bring to the fore. I felt she didn’t want the Practical Freeloader’s Guide to Book Launches, the kind that gives hints about going early, making friends with whoever is pouring the red wine, asking the waiter to leave the plate of canapés just there on the table beside you and avoiding eyes when it comes to the time to buy the book. No, she wanted to fit in and enjoy herself. And her main problem was that she felt, probably accurately, that she wouldn’t know anyone there.
She was dreading a sea of roaring, chattering folk, all baying at each other, while she stood on the outside looking conspicuous, because she was a stranger. So 1 gave her great advice altogether. I told her to identify herself to everyone she met. It’s one of the most important rules I have ever learned . . . and, if you do it without sounding like a fog-horn, it’s a very attractive trait.
Now the so-called Shy Brigade, for whom I have so little time, tell you that it’s arrogant to give your name before you are asked for it, but I don’t agree. I think they are too selfish and self-centred to help anyone else start a conversation or be at ease. Whom would I prefer to meet at a book launch?
Given the choice of two kinds of people . . . would I like to meet one of the self-styled shy people, silent, uncommunicative, always with a little smile playing about their lips? All right, I know it’s a nervous smile, but the rest of us are nervous too and we don’t give off vibes of superiority.
No, I have had too many years of trying to put the shy at ease and got nothing but scorn for my pains. I have often turned into my Gestapo mode, trying to get ordinary, everyday information out of those who refuse to part with it. I’m giving up on the shy. Their self-consciousness is, in fact, a monstrous selfishness. I’m going to leave them and look for the people whose insides may also be churning but who can identify themselves, in the interest of the common good.
I would so much prefer this woman if she came to his party determined to help other people to enjoy themselves by giving them a basic and harmless opening sentence. She doesn’t have to do it to the whole room. Maybe three or four times at most. Maybe only once.
A nice person who smiled and said “Hello, I’m so-and-so, I was his landlady when he was writing the book. Isn’t this a great occasion?” I’d be delighted to meet her. Wouldn’t anyone? She can give you loads of information. If you want to ask if he was starving in a garret, or if it was a penthouse, you can. If you want to ask if he had loud music or a colourful social life, it’s all open to you. If you don’t want to talk to her much longer, you can introduce her to someone else because she has given you her name.
I wouldn’t think she was arrogant. I would think she was making an effort, and I’d applaud her for it. The guy who wrote the book has a million things to worry about . . . like, will anyone turn up? Will too many people turn up? Will the drink hold out? Will anyone write anything in the papers? Will they write the wrong thing? Will the book die without trace or will it be vilified as the worst thing ever written?
What he does not need is the sight of his former landlady standing on the edge, twisting her hands and being antisocial and all those other awful things that shy people marshal as dignifying characteristics. He would much rather see her chatting away to people from other parts of his life. He will relax his shoulders momentarily and think that it was a good thing to invite her, and maybe, in a rush of gratitude, he’ll give her a free book.
And this great advice about identifying yourself holds good in every situation. In places where people mumble introductions, or don’t give them, always say who you are and say it with a slightly upward intonation, as if you are eyeballing them to repeat who they are too.
That way you might actually get to know who you’re talking to and there can be no occasion when it’s the wrong approach. Suppose whoever you’re talking to knows nobody – then he or she will be thrilled with this piece of information. If the person knows everybody, the chances are that the brain cells are beginning to die off and memory overload is setting in, so he or she will be delighted that you gave your name, while protesting that it hadn’t been forgotten.
Identifying yourself is the answer to any problems of shyness and awkwardness. I’m delighted that I was able to work it out so satisfactorily.
Surprise! Surprise!
“He died, the poor guy, because he thought he was coming home after a long, tiring day and . . . 100 red-faced, shouting people in party hats jumped out at him”
There is a surprise party coming up. It’s a sort of anniversary or birthday or homecoming or graduation she said vaguely, determined not to give the fun away. If fun it is. Everyone is sworn to secrecy and we all have to be in place and keep quiet while an unsuspecting person or persons are led in to what they think is something else. Then the lights will go on and we will all shout and scream Surprise! Surprise!
The success or failure of the thing will depend entirely on the range of facial expressions we will witness, from shock/horror, to lumps in the throat, to tears not far from the surface, to hands clasped in amazement, to smiles and beams of delight, to head-wagging saying this was a terrible trick to play.
Maybe some people are great actors, and they can turn this kind of performance on to order. Maybe a lot of people are so damn nice and uncomplicated that these actually are the emotions they feel.
Perhaps there are people who think they are not surprise party people but rapidly become those very creatures when a friend puts them through it. It is even possible to argue that a surprise party can take the onus off someone having to plan a thing all alone, with all the worry, indecision and expense involved. But I only say all these things to show that my mind is not closed when I say that I cannot bear surprise parties and I think they are a waste of time and kindness and goodness and energy and that it would be much nicer to tell the person that YOU are throwing some kind of gathering for them and then make it as lavish and cast the net as wide as you like.
My American friend who runs 20 blocks in her trainers to work every morning and does, I admit, have an extreme lifestyle told me that she was at a surprise party where the honoured guest had a heart attack and died in front of them all. The organisers are still in counselling over it and people are still sending them letters of sympathy. He would have died at that moment anyway, the sympathisers say, his time was up. Like heck it was. He died, the poor guy, because he had thought he was coming home after a long, tiring day and too much to eat and he was going to put his feet up and watch a movie. Instead, 100 red-faced, shouting people in party hats jumped out at him. That is why he died.
I didn’t know this man and it would be silly for me to get into some kind of retrospective outrage on his behalf. But I do know a woman whose husband had told her, on the eve of their 30th wedding anniversary, that he was about to leave her for a younger, shinier model. She tried to talk about it with her family and friends the next day but none of them would speak to her because they were so busy planning and disguising the limpest and dampest squib of a party that was ever held. Of course they couldn’t have known, and naturally they had meant well. But can you think of a more humiliating, hurtful way to get on to the next stage in your life?
1 know different people like different things. By this stage I may not know much, but I do know that. I had a friend who thought her boyfriend had forgotten her birthday and she had become very sad by the end of the day. He had actually arranged a great party for her in a restaurant that evening. At about 9 p.m., he pretended to remember it, and suggested they try and get a booking, by which time she had become quite tearful. Normally careful about her appearance, she wasn’t in the mood to dress up so she just pulled on her raincoat. Of course she arrived at the restaurant to find 30 people dressed in fine feathers. She hates the photos of the night because she looks like Cinderella before the arrival of the fairy godmother.
And I also know a man who said he didn’t want any fuss made of his 50th birthday and we all thought tha
t’s what he wanted but he was sitting eagerly all day apparently waiting for all the razzmatazz to start. And it didn’t. Even his family had believed he didn’t want to mark passing the half century and they had all glossed over it. And he had been getting ready for the one that never happened.
It’s not that I don’t love celebration, I celebrate things like “It’s Wednesday” for heaven’s sake. But I do think that if you are over the age of 21, you are better off being given a little warning.
I checked this with a whole rake of people – not just ones of like minds.
One woman said she hated the surprise for the first half hour. She felt the thing was too lavish, she had always let her cousins think they lived a much more modest lifestyle, she was in agony in case her in-laws might be staying in the house which was in no way tidy, she feared they had forgotten a neighbour who would take eternal umbrage.
But gradually the sense of delight that all these people thought her worthy of a celebration took over. She felt important and the centre of something. She had short over-excited conversations with people. Someone had made her an album of greetings and snaps. It’s all bathed in a rosy delight, something she would never have had the arrogance to organise for herself. Yes, she says, surprises are great.
A man said he didn’t really like his surprise party because his workmates had nothing to say to his golf-mates who had nothing to say to his pub-mates and it had cost too much.
