There’s something decidedly autological about the word ‘awkwardness’. (For those of you using Blackberrys, whose search function is something akin to placing your phone into a bottle and throwing it into the sea, ‘autological’ is when a word looks like what it is). All those spiky ‘k’ and ‘w’, all jostling for position and kicking each other surreptitiously. And the way the word trails off with the sibilant ‘ness’- exactly like that awful hush that falls once everyone realises how awkward a situation has become.
I have taken to working in an ice-cream shop. I like ice-cream, there’s free wi-fi, the sofas are comfortable and I’m unfussed if I drip chocolate ice-cream onto them. It’s the perfect office. Except for the staff. The shop isn’t busy- or rather, people who want to buy over-priced Italian gelato tend to take it to eat in Holland Park, so the staff have very little to do. But rather than creating exciting new sundaes or blind-testing the ice-cream, they talk to me.
It’s absolutely dire. They want to show me blurry YouTube clips of their band. Or discuss how exorbitant the rents are in London. I have nothing to say. This only encourages them. I imagine a normal person might politely explain that they have work to do, or ignore them. I can’t handle the awkwardness.
I can feel myself making a very particular face- I raise my eyebrows and open my eyes extra wide to show enthusiasm, whilst nodding excessively. I look something like this:
It is a mark of how bored the ice-cream staff are that they continue to talk to me. I wish they wouldn’t. The awkwardness is killing me.
