Spare me the Organ Recital

by Richard Pooley

Photo by De an Sun on Unsplash

Deep breath. I’m about to offend what few friends I have left. I have recently made a new entry into my list of conversational pet hates. It’s already a long and eclectic list: tales of holidays in exotic places, narrations of dreams, a disquisition on the roads that should be taken to get from A to B and all the reasons why one should not go via C or D, house prices, the talents of children not your own, the characters and antics of … er…pets. I could go on but long lists of anything, including what is wrong with the world, is another pet hate. My latest addition is something which has become a common opening gambit whenever I meet friends, or even strangers, who anyone under forty would class as “ancient” – i.e. those like me past seventy. This is the litany of physical complaints which us ancients are prone to having and which my fellow contributor to Only Connect, Eric Boa, calls “The Organ Recital”.

My boredom with hearing about other people’s holidays and, worse, seeing their holiday photos does not mean I am not interested in the places visited. Nor is it the snobbery of someone whose first beach holiday abroad was in Tobago, aged 6, whilst living in Venezuela. The trouble is that I hardly ever get an interesting answer to my initial query: “What was it like?” Instead I invariably get the answer to a question I didn’t ask:  “What did you do?” Cue a chronological ‘Done’ list. Often with accompanying photos and videos. I have tried other openers. “What did you learn?” has never worked. It must sound pretentious. As if anyone goes on holiday to learn anything. “How were the locals?” can elicit some interesting observation of the culture but more usually leads to a mildly racist anecdote. Part of the problem is that we hardly meet many locals when we go abroad on holiday. We meet other tourists and those locals who the other locals want us to meet – guides, waiters, taxi drivers. I saw a well-travelled South African friend recently who had been on a round-the-world cruise. My most open opener: “Tell me about it” was met with a look which said “Do I have to?” and a list of ports called at. He had seen too many eyes glazing over to bother trying to give an absorbing lecture. Yet he can be a good raconteur and fancies himself as a philosopher. My fault. I should have tried “What did you learn?”

Does anyone really find other people’s dreams interesting? Apart from those of one’s spouse or children; and then only because you might be in them.

The oral road map routine is a very male turn and one made totally redundant by satellite navigation. Yet still we men gurn on about the A367 and the much windier but somehow quicker B3310.

House prices in the UK have become a less popular topic of late, mostly because they have stopped going up, yet are so high as to make it impossible for anybody below forty who is not a corporate lawyer, an investment banker, or a drug dealer to buy property. So, talk shifts to how each other’s children are doing, which almost inevitably leads back to house prices and how the Bank of Mum and Dad has had to help out, which in turn can lead to embarrassment as one realises that someone in the conversation hasn’t had sufficient financial success (or had parents dying at the right time) to be able to set up said BoMaD.

I’m against people having pets, especially in towns and cities. Unless the pets are not really pets but working animals – sheep dogs, guide dogs. Okay, okay, yes, they are good for one’s health if you live on your own or need an excuse to take exercise. But I really can’t be doing with all the anthropomorphic chatter, nor the cruel hypocrisy of having a cat and fattening the cat’s prey with birdseed, nor the vast cost to the planet and ourselves of feeding all these domesticated animals and dealing with the end results of such feeding. So, no please don’t expect me to join in an appreciative chat about your pets.

Where was I? Ah yes. The new pet hate: the Organ Recital. “How are you?” is no longer enough. I’m expected to add “How is the knee/ankle/prostate [enter correct organ]?” It’s another list. This one of ailments, diseases and failing body parts, with added tales of cancelled appointments (“I had booked it months ago.”), wrong diagnoses (“How is the doctor supposed to know what’s wrong with you in a 3-minute phone call?”), and delayed treatment (“I should have gone private.”). It becomes competitive: “I have to get up twice in the night.” “Twice? You’re lucky. I sometimes have to go four or five times. Get no sleep.” 

The thing is there are conversations about someone’s health I would like to have. With those with cancer, for example. They are the people who we should listen to and deserve our sympathy. My glaucoma may result in my going blind; but only if I don’t take the daily drops. I am master of my fate. But someone with a life-threatening disease may have little agency. Moreover, I might learn something by hearing what they are going through and how they are coping with it.

I notice that those friends or family who have such a disease are the ones least willing to discuss it. Instead they stand there commiserating with those like me who really have nothing to complain about.

So, if we meet, please do not be offended if I decline to see your holiday photos, do not interpret your dreams, assure you my sat nav is working fine, tell you I have not been on Rightmove for years, admit to not having any pets, and tell you that I am lucky to have so few ailments at my advanced age. And be prepared for me to ask “What did you learn on holiday?”, “Why do you think we dream?”, “Do you still use a road atlas?”, “Aren’t we the lucky generation to have been able to buy a house when young?”, “Aren’t we harming the planet by having pets?”,  and “Do you know that life expectancy is dropping in the USA?”

Now you can understand why I have so few friends.