Opinion Article

The Big Problem with Small Talk: Why I Hate Family ‘Parties’

Small talk has been a dark shadow at the heels of the Average Joe for millennia – and it’s time for us to take back the silence

Josie Cubie

The Guardian, Monday 7 October 2013

 

In the past I have spoken openly about my distaste for the sordid gatherings that are so hastily (and rather distastefully) labelled ‘family parties’ – but until now I have kept my reasons for detesting this particular loathsome activity to myself. Not anymore.

It seems that this great nation has become a victim of one of the dullest pastimes imaginable: talking about the weather. As if the days are not long enough, the clouds not dark enough, the pavements not damp enough, we feel the inherent need to make our conversations rain.

Alone at a bus stop? Let it pour. Visiting the buffet table at your brother’s anniversary? Expect a shower. Checking out items at the supermarket tills? May the heavens open above you.

All of this is not to say that I don’t enjoy a good natter – I do. It’s just that I faithfully stand behind the philosophy that talking non-stop about the size of the potholes on the local high-street will gain you minus three friends. Perhaps minus four.

Although most people capable of speech have at some point accidentally allowed themselves to slip into conversations that could be seen as boring or time wasting (myself included), my years of mindlessly wondering this planet have led me to believe that those with the highest level of accountability, the greatest expertise in the field of blathering, the LARGEST of umbrellas, are in fact OAPs.

Incidentally, it was my own Grandmother’s actions that prompted me to write an article on the subject. To her, apparently, my cheerful perusing of the snack table at the latest family revelry was an unwitting invitation for her to march up to me and ask the same ruddy question she does every time we are forced into the same musty old room: ‘My, haven’t you grown?’

Perhaps the correct response is quite different to the one I usually give – a stiff nod of the head, an awkward smile, a whispered ‘so have you, Gran,’ – but I don’t believe that any response would prevent my dear old Grandmother from steam training ahead with a list of questions that I will surely have to repeat at least fifty times during the course of the evening. Yes, Gran, college is great. Yes, Gran, I’m learning a lot. Yes, Gran, I’ve been eating my greens. I stand uncomfortably before the motley crew that is my dear family, arms crossed over my chest, hiding the silly dress that I bought believing that it would fit the occasion well. This is not my idea of a fun Saturday night.

While (of course) I love my family, I do not necessarily want to dress up and sit around a long table exchanging civilities with them until the cows come home. It’d be much more interesting if we all just freed ourselves of the chains and swore at each other across tables, ranted about all the things we truly despise, argued over chicken legs. After all, my immediate family are hardly the types to sit prettily upon their silken napkins, waiting for someone to politely pass around the potato salad. Heck no. There are no rainy conversations at my house, only storms and tsunamis and earth shaking accusations. It’s more interesting that way.

There will come a time, I’m sure, when I will enjoy nothing more than a cup of Earl Grey and blether about the newly installed traffic lights that are giving me jip, but right now, I’d rather a roaring argument than a friendly catch up.  

Sure, small talk may be polite, some may even believe it to be necessary, but it’s as boring as meat and two veg, as mind numbing as a speech from Katie Price, and as predictable as a Sandra Bullock movie.

And if you disagree, then I had better get my brolly out.