The first was a conversation about the work night out. It's this Friday. Now that we're all a bit fed up of curry nights, the cool kids have decided to shake it up a bit and they've plumped for a jolly, at good old TGI Fridays. Why not? It's loud, it's cold, it's where miserable staff try to pretend they're constantly super-excited about the birthdays of strangers... it's perfect. There are 28 of us going but crucially, it turns out that only some of the department have been invited.
Hmmm. Trouble always looms when only some people are invited to a thing.
"The thing is Matt," she said, disgruntled, "It's really a young person's thing anyway. People like us, we've got kids, we've got commitments, we have to ferry children to football and ballet practice and sort out babysitters..."
I made a face that went wholly unnoticed. Her enormous assumption was trampling and trumpeting like an elephant I had to do my best to ignore. It was all I could do to keep nodding.
You know, sometimes I forget that I'm 36. I watched a thing the other day where the opening monologue was a sort of analysis of the audience.
"Most of you," said the presenter, "...will statistically be in your thirties. You'll be feeling stuck in a rut, wondering about change and adventure..."
Yep.
"...You'll be considering your marriage, and, about 13% of you... will be having an affair."
Nope. I switched it off as the audience tittered uncomfortably.
And that's how it happens. You suddenly remember how old you are and how the world sort of expects you to be a certain... way... by now. It comes snapping into focus with the same feeling you get when you see yourself in a photo and remember what you look like to other people.
For the record then, I've never had to ferry children to football or ballet practice. I've never booked a babysitter; crumbs, I've never even bought a television, changed a nappy or complained about a thermostat. What kind of mid-thirties guy am I?
The second conversation was about Valentine's Day, would you believe.
"So, do you take it really seriously?" I asked, politely. "You know some people just don't bother - it's way too commercialised and overhyped..."
"Well this is our first, so we'll do something - probably go to dinner in Winchester..."
There was an awkward pause. In those few seconds, it suddenly occurred to me that no-one here has ever asked me about my status. Not ever. As you can imagine, I flicked through reasons as to why that might be - like index cards flashing through my mind. Eventually, I settled on the optimistic conclusion that it's just too personal a question and, as I never mention it, I clearly don't want to talk about it. It is another elephantine assumption.
"Aw, that's nice," I said, boringly.
As it happens, I am going to TGIs on Friday, despite not being one of the cool kids in the playground and notwithstanding the fact that I don't belong in the Exhausted Parent Club either.
My theory is that it's better to get to know people, to find out what makes them tick somehow, even if you have to share a noisy table or sit glumly through an argument about how to split the bill. I believe in brave conversations, the kind of thing where you simply point out the elephant, burst his bubble and hope for the best - but you can only have those if you really know people well enough.
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