Wobbly upper lip?
Whatever happened to discretion, dignity and British reserve? Last week I was present in several different locations where people, whom I barely know, felt the need to discuss, in voices sufficiently loud enough for me to hear, with their (barely known) colleagues, acquaintances or passers by, the following topics:
How crap her husband was in bed last night.
How “I will chuck a brick through your window if you don’t leave my f*****g kids alone”.
“I owe about £55000 on cards and loans, my mate went backrupt and I’m heading there too”.
“The doctor told me I’ll need to go back for a smear”.
“She’s got a drink problem; she told me yesterday.”
“I had my ovaries removed two years ago” – told to me after a two minute – I’ve only just met you / how’s it going? / smalltalk conversation-in-passing.
I was wondering if “tell me your innermost secrets” had been tattooed on my forehead by the bignjuicy tattoo sleepelves but I checked in the mirror earlier and it’s just wrinkles (although not many unless I smile, which is sadly ironic doncha think?). My conclusion is that we are becoming less British. More ready to disclose all to all and sundry. Refreshingly open? Modern? Uninhibited? I dunno. I’ve always been wary of people who tell you their life story after first meeting. It was never like this before the Queen of Hearts. I blame Martin Bashir.