Ramblings

A wet lunchtime in 1969. I was charging round the school corridor with a friend, too fast but still mindful of others. Mr M, the English teacher was on one side of a small flight of about eight stairs in conversation with another teacher on the opposite side. Mr M called me back.

“Edwards! What would this school be like if everybody ran around like that?”

“Sir, what would this school be like if everybody stood around talking on the stairs?”

***************

It was 20th January 2009 on the dealing floor in London. Trading was quiet, and Barack Obama’s inauguration was being shown on the TV screens. It was a cold, sunny day in Washington D.C., and the cameras pick out a plump elderly black lady in a large grey coat wearing a hat decorated with a huge bow. She stepped forward and started singing My Country, ‘Tis of Thee.

”Oh my god, what the hell is that?” It was the dealing room loudmouth.

“That” I replied, “is Aretha Franklin, and you should damn well show some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. “What’s your problem? Is it that she’s black, is it that she’s old, or is it that she’s a woman?

***************

I had just crossed the bridge over the M25 on my run down to Maple Cross when I turned a corner and saw a man and a woman with two large dogs running loose. One of the dogs ran and jumped up at me, and its teeth made contact with my bare arm – not a fully aggressive bite, but as I started running on I realised that it had drawn blood. I decided this behaviour shouldn’t go unchallenged. I jogged back and showed them my arm. The man decided to open the conversation.

“I’m not having a go at you but…”

(You’re not having a go at me? That’s good to know, pal, because I’m about to have a go at you.)

“…you came round that corner so fast…”

(Well thanks, that’s not a criticism I often hear about my running.)

“…that you surprised him. He’s very defensive.”

“What are you saying? That I shouldn’t run on a rural footpath? If your dog is so ‘defensive’ why don’t you put him on the lead? A runner, or a child, or a child running can come round the corner at any time, and your dog is clearly not safe off the lead. If he bit a child next time, do you think the police would blame the child or the dog?”

And on I ran, a little bit faster.

***************

It was the dealing room loudmouth again.

“Shit! The Base Rate has changed! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Perhaps because the last time the Base Rate changed, and someone pointed it out five minutes afterwards, you slapped them down with “Yes, and Queen Victoria’s dead.” I think now we all assume you have perfect information and don’t need any help from the rest of us.”

***************

Of course, none of these conversations happened quite in this way. The French have an expression for it: l’esprit d’escalier (“staircase wit”) – there is also an older English word afterwit. The French expression is after Diderot: during a dinner party a remark was made which left him speechless at the time, because, he explains, “a sensitive man, such as myself, overwhelmed by the argument levelled against him, becomes confused and doesn’t come to himself again until at the bottom of the stairs.” (“l’homme sensible, comme moi, tout entier à ce qu’on lui objecte, perd la tête et ne se retrouve qu’au bas de l’escalier“).

Diderot hadn’t been eating in a bedroom: in this style of mansion the reception rooms were on the étage noble, one floor above the ground floor. To have reached the bottom of the stairs meant he had definitely left.

So no, I didn’t challenge the goon who was rude about Aretha. Nor did I call out the trader for the Queen Victoria barb. I lacked the courage to raise my head above the parapet among the aggressive dealing room banter.

As for the couple with the dog, I was too angry to make the point properly. What I actually said was “If your dog is so ‘defensive’ why don’t you put him on the fucking lead?” I had sworn in front of a woman, and that gave the man the chance to play the chivalry card and dismiss my complaint. Perhaps I’m lucky he didn’t set the dogs on me. But I certainly did run on a little bit faster.

And no, I didn’t give Mr M that cheeky reply when I was literally on l’escalier, and just as well. Teachers don’t like being challenged, even when you’re right. Especially when you’re right.

Of course this is why I enjoy writing so much: I can give my stinging comeback years – or decades – afterwards.