LJ Idol 9 - Week 13 - Open Topic
In that moment I knew that I was dying and in an especially futile way besides.
We had been sitting in one of our regular bars in Germany. It was January and, as part of the ongoing programme of assuaging the post-Christmas blues, we were sampling the mini-cocktail menu. I had just drunk something called an 'Angel's Tit', so-called because of the blob of cream and glacé cherry on top of it. The cherry had gone down the wrong way and, there I was, in severe danger of being felled in my prime by something with a very silly name. I don't even like glacé friggin' cherries.
I began to choke and then, to my alarm, realised that my throat had closed up. I tried to cough it open again, but to no avail. I tried to draw in air through my nose and my mouth but discovered that none was getting past the barrier to my lungs. Black roses started to bloom in my eyes and I knew that I needed to turn my panic into action to either alert help or to save myself.
The atmosphere was warm and smoky, so I hurled myself out of my seat and towards the door to where I hoped the cool of outside might help me. Then I stopped, for as soon as my hand had reached the handle, a group of people were trying to get in, so I stood there placidly, holding the door open for them as they entered. Another gaggle approached, so I did the same for them. Then and only then I staggered outside, fell to my knees and mercifully felt my airways relenting somewhat. As my vision buzzily returned, my eyes and nose streaming, my breath rasping painfully, I realised what I had done.
The Manners Fairy had struck again.
☺☺☺
This is just one of the examples of early conditioning having further complicated my day. There are too many occasions to enumerate when I have been left holding e.g. a shop door as half the town troops through it because it would be rude to escape. This is, however, the only occasion in this category when I did so despite imminent asphyxia. The worst part is that, given the same circumstances, I would probably end up doing the same stupid thing, not because I am the Flower of Self-Abnegation, but because I have been programmed to be polite. I often wonder how much I am an apostle of the spirit of the art of manners as opposed to the mere letter.
The rationale, I was given to believe in my earliest known training, was to make life more pleasant and convenient for those around me, particularly for my elders and betters. At Junior School, I was instructed in the art of standing up when an adult entered the room, of never referring to an adult with the third person pronoun, of only using the left hand side of the corridor or staircase. There were more basic lessons still, such as sitting up straight with my legs closed thank you, chewing with my mouth firmly closed and blowing my nose quietly, for I was a lumpen child who must be thus instructed. Some of these tenets seemed indisputable and others were to be followed because they were the rules. Yet even at a tender age I had the dawning inkling that a person could be outwardly the doyenne of comportment, but in fact be a brute under the skin or simply not be a very nice person at all. An awful lot of people did not seem to care about other people in the least, but were considered laudable for their mastery of manners.
As an obedient child drone, I nevertheless took in my training and have continued to act upon it to the best of my abilities. My pleases, thank yous and sorries flow from my lips perfunctorily, regardless of any gratitude or regret. Doors are held open with a bland and willing smile, no matter how much I am thinking, ”Oh for f%&§'s sake! My arm is coming off! I have places to be!” My 'After You's' can produce delightful do-si-dos when attempting to pass by those similarly afflicted. It is all very civilised if a mite insincere upon closer examination.
Of course, this can all be easily challenged.
☺☺☺
One obvious way is when others don't seem to know the same rules. London is a dreadful place for that, a wonderful location in which to be cursed, jostled, elbowed and shoved out of the way. We durst not speak of London lest I be left clutching my proverbial pearls. In this country generally, a lack of adherence to 'the rules' may be dismissed as ignorance and self-centredness and results in a lot of grousing and tutting afterward. In reality, perhaps, it is a clash of cultures.
When I went to the States, for example, an awful lot of people seemed to have no idea what I was saying. I was fairly sure that both I and the Americans shared a common language, but it turned out not to be quite the case. Some people commented on my 'cute' accent, others became angry and most looked puzzled when I made my simple requests.
”Please may I have a Coke.” apparently came out as, ”Prithee, good Sirrah! 'Twould please both the honour of mine house and that of yours if thou could'st unto me vouchsafe a measure of the brown nectar of Atlanta, that which ye knaves doth name 'Coke'”
”She'll take a Coke,” my boyfriend helpfully translated for me.
”You can't say that!” I squealed. ”You have to say 'please'!”
Apparently not.
I lived for five years in Germany, the first couple of which were rich with incidents which made me decide that Germans were weird and rude. Eventually I adapted and got used to their ways, complete with the terrible realisation that my own British politeness must have come across as bizarre in the extreme.
For example, if a German person wants to get past you and you are in their way, they usually will not say. A British person would say, ”Excuse me!”, preferably in a pleasant tone. To be addressed thus by a stranger can be seen as intrusive by many Germans, so they behave differently. If they judge that they can squeeze by, they do so, often resulting in shoulder barges (”You mustn't take it so personally!” my German friends counselled me. ”I'd have bloody well moved if he had said!” was my reply). The alternative is to hover and wait for an opening. To my shame, my boyfriend and I sometimes made sport of the latter approach, stolidly remaining in front of supermarket displays, perhaps fanning ourselves out for maximum blockage as somebody hopped from side to side awaiting the merest chink. Less funny when, on a trip back to Blighty, I found myself being very German and snaking in behind two old ladies having a chat instead of politely excusing myself... They were shocked and I blushed at having 'gone native'.
Germans similarly do not queue. For a people often depicted as coldly logical, this is really, rather not. It just about works in shops and at airport check-ins, but almost nowhere else. On our town's buses, for example, there was a campaign to persuade people that getting on at the front was better than getting on at the back. Now, I would never have done it any other way, taking my place in the line and meekly shaking my head at anyone muscling in ahead. However, the able-bodied contingent tended to swarm any opening, causing bottlenecks and logjams as they fought for the best seats. Evil monsters? No. It was just their way and that way was subject to re-education as... the bus company was concerned that some people weren't franking their tickets. No other reason.
'Manners maketh man' according to William of Wykeham, although they have often made a monkey out of me. As I follow Darwin, I suppose that must be just fine.
We had been sitting in one of our regular bars in Germany. It was January and, as part of the ongoing programme of assuaging the post-Christmas blues, we were sampling the mini-cocktail menu. I had just drunk something called an 'Angel's Tit', so-called because of the blob of cream and glacé cherry on top of it. The cherry had gone down the wrong way and, there I was, in severe danger of being felled in my prime by something with a very silly name. I don't even like glacé friggin' cherries.
I began to choke and then, to my alarm, realised that my throat had closed up. I tried to cough it open again, but to no avail. I tried to draw in air through my nose and my mouth but discovered that none was getting past the barrier to my lungs. Black roses started to bloom in my eyes and I knew that I needed to turn my panic into action to either alert help or to save myself.
The atmosphere was warm and smoky, so I hurled myself out of my seat and towards the door to where I hoped the cool of outside might help me. Then I stopped, for as soon as my hand had reached the handle, a group of people were trying to get in, so I stood there placidly, holding the door open for them as they entered. Another gaggle approached, so I did the same for them. Then and only then I staggered outside, fell to my knees and mercifully felt my airways relenting somewhat. As my vision buzzily returned, my eyes and nose streaming, my breath rasping painfully, I realised what I had done.
The Manners Fairy had struck again.
☺☺☺
This is just one of the examples of early conditioning having further complicated my day. There are too many occasions to enumerate when I have been left holding e.g. a shop door as half the town troops through it because it would be rude to escape. This is, however, the only occasion in this category when I did so despite imminent asphyxia. The worst part is that, given the same circumstances, I would probably end up doing the same stupid thing, not because I am the Flower of Self-Abnegation, but because I have been programmed to be polite. I often wonder how much I am an apostle of the spirit of the art of manners as opposed to the mere letter.
The rationale, I was given to believe in my earliest known training, was to make life more pleasant and convenient for those around me, particularly for my elders and betters. At Junior School, I was instructed in the art of standing up when an adult entered the room, of never referring to an adult with the third person pronoun, of only using the left hand side of the corridor or staircase. There were more basic lessons still, such as sitting up straight with my legs closed thank you, chewing with my mouth firmly closed and blowing my nose quietly, for I was a lumpen child who must be thus instructed. Some of these tenets seemed indisputable and others were to be followed because they were the rules. Yet even at a tender age I had the dawning inkling that a person could be outwardly the doyenne of comportment, but in fact be a brute under the skin or simply not be a very nice person at all. An awful lot of people did not seem to care about other people in the least, but were considered laudable for their mastery of manners.
As an obedient child drone, I nevertheless took in my training and have continued to act upon it to the best of my abilities. My pleases, thank yous and sorries flow from my lips perfunctorily, regardless of any gratitude or regret. Doors are held open with a bland and willing smile, no matter how much I am thinking, ”Oh for f%&§'s sake! My arm is coming off! I have places to be!” My 'After You's' can produce delightful do-si-dos when attempting to pass by those similarly afflicted. It is all very civilised if a mite insincere upon closer examination.
Of course, this can all be easily challenged.
☺☺☺
One obvious way is when others don't seem to know the same rules. London is a dreadful place for that, a wonderful location in which to be cursed, jostled, elbowed and shoved out of the way. We durst not speak of London lest I be left clutching my proverbial pearls. In this country generally, a lack of adherence to 'the rules' may be dismissed as ignorance and self-centredness and results in a lot of grousing and tutting afterward. In reality, perhaps, it is a clash of cultures.
When I went to the States, for example, an awful lot of people seemed to have no idea what I was saying. I was fairly sure that both I and the Americans shared a common language, but it turned out not to be quite the case. Some people commented on my 'cute' accent, others became angry and most looked puzzled when I made my simple requests.
”Please may I have a Coke.” apparently came out as, ”Prithee, good Sirrah! 'Twould please both the honour of mine house and that of yours if thou could'st unto me vouchsafe a measure of the brown nectar of Atlanta, that which ye knaves doth name 'Coke'”
”She'll take a Coke,” my boyfriend helpfully translated for me.
”You can't say that!” I squealed. ”You have to say 'please'!”
Apparently not.
I lived for five years in Germany, the first couple of which were rich with incidents which made me decide that Germans were weird and rude. Eventually I adapted and got used to their ways, complete with the terrible realisation that my own British politeness must have come across as bizarre in the extreme.
For example, if a German person wants to get past you and you are in their way, they usually will not say. A British person would say, ”Excuse me!”, preferably in a pleasant tone. To be addressed thus by a stranger can be seen as intrusive by many Germans, so they behave differently. If they judge that they can squeeze by, they do so, often resulting in shoulder barges (”You mustn't take it so personally!” my German friends counselled me. ”I'd have bloody well moved if he had said!” was my reply). The alternative is to hover and wait for an opening. To my shame, my boyfriend and I sometimes made sport of the latter approach, stolidly remaining in front of supermarket displays, perhaps fanning ourselves out for maximum blockage as somebody hopped from side to side awaiting the merest chink. Less funny when, on a trip back to Blighty, I found myself being very German and snaking in behind two old ladies having a chat instead of politely excusing myself... They were shocked and I blushed at having 'gone native'.
Germans similarly do not queue. For a people often depicted as coldly logical, this is really, rather not. It just about works in shops and at airport check-ins, but almost nowhere else. On our town's buses, for example, there was a campaign to persuade people that getting on at the front was better than getting on at the back. Now, I would never have done it any other way, taking my place in the line and meekly shaking my head at anyone muscling in ahead. However, the able-bodied contingent tended to swarm any opening, causing bottlenecks and logjams as they fought for the best seats. Evil monsters? No. It was just their way and that way was subject to re-education as... the bus company was concerned that some people weren't franking their tickets. No other reason.
'Manners maketh man' according to William of Wykeham, although they have often made a monkey out of me. As I follow Darwin, I suppose that must be just fine.