I spend my days avoiding the walkway of others. When I decide to swerve to the left, my chosen route becomes the desired choice of my opponent. A last-minute manoeuvre to the right, then takes the fancy of my now more fittingly labelled aggressor. As my frustration has grown, I’ve taken to walking directly towards my fellow pedestrians, in hope that they’ll surrender to the left or right. Sadly, my ferocity encourages others to be just as stubborn, resulting in the very slapstick routine I was trying to avoid. Day after day I feel as though I'm auditioning a cloddish Laurel to be my equally uncoordinated Hardy. The only time I’m able to take charge of my walkway is when I’m approaching the escalators at various tube stations. I refuse to stand to the right of the stairs and allow the mechanism to slowly journey me to the outside world. Instead, I charge up the left-hand side, making sure to brush past each bystander, making it known that I have important places to be.
I fail at mastering two of life’s simplest tasks: walking and talking – but only when done simultaneously, which without elaboration sounds quite manic. The premise of meandering around a city with a friend, admiring the scenery and making insightful, witty remarks sounds nothing but romantic; it’s hard not to compare these scenes to the images instilled into us by Jesse and Céline in the Before trilogy. Apart from the odd exception, I find it to be a largely uncomfortable experience. One of the parties, often myself, feels the need to fill this time with moronic chit-chat, recycled jokes and banal questions. I am aware that this is probably just one of my neuroses, and the awkwardness I experience is not reciprocated, but I have had to come up with measures to avoid these interactions. Firstly, when going on a date – romantic or platonic – I'll arrange to meet the person at our destination rather than walking there together. Many a time, I have been met by an eligible bachelor or a friend at my bus stop, we’ve walked together to our desired restaurant, and by the time we’ve arrived, we’ve completely caught up on each other’s lives. In addition, all pre-rehearsed anecdotes are wasted, as most charm and wit is found in a person’s facial expression which cannot be fully witnessed whilst walking. When the walking together is unavoidable, another thing I’ll try is prefacing any exchange with “I’ll tell you more about it when we sit down”; this leaves said friend shivering with anticipation and making sure the conversation won’t be sparse once we’ve taken our seat. The third measure is still in the works; it would mean forcing myself not to overthink these things, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.
After making the bold decision to move to Paris more than a year ago, I figured I was also maturing out of the aforementioned issues. It was time to trust that conversations did not have to be so limited. I’d started to accept that walking chats may never be riveting and often the silence is more comfortable than another comment about how hot and muggy it is. However, I began to regress and realised the validity of my anxieties; this came about whilst walking home from school with the kids that I took care of as an au pair. The journey home was always relatively painful. I was habitually met with disappointment when I’d greet them as I was neither their mum nor dad. I’d try to ask one of them – in French – how their day was, which was either ignored or greeted monosyllabically. I began to assume that my French pronunciation was off, so asked them the same question in English, which received similar responses, or lack thereof. To escape these painfully loud silences, I began bringing the children's scooters with me to school pick-up. I hoped they’d ride beside me, gently gliding round the pavements of the 7th Arrondissement. Rather, they’d steam ahead until they were a speck in the distance, and I was left screaming “Arrête!” and “Doucement” at bewildered pedestrians.
Before moving to France, I anticipated many uncomfortable situations that were unescapable. Things like tending to a child’s paper cuts or grazed knees, living completely alone for the first time, and the general difficulties of navigating a foreign country. One thing I failed to consider, which ended up being a weekly chagrin, was having to walk from A to B with the guardian of one of my kids’ friends. My French abilities never surpassed simple interactions, so I knew that attempting any form of small talk with these individuals would result in me confused and with my English tail between my legs. So, to escape anything more than a “Bonjour”, I’d walk a couple of metres in front of the children and the lone caretaker. I figured I’d rather be seen as a mute than have had to admit my sparse knowledge of the language. To avoid looking as awkward as I felt, I quickly picked up a few habits that made me look more like a real person. I’d peer into the shop windows that we’d pass and look intrigued by the unimpressive art and bland, though expensive, jewellery. I’d glance back at the children and laugh when it seemed appropriate, despite only deciphering small sections of conversation. I’d take small but constant sips of water so that my mouth was obviously too busy to talk. I’d hastily ransack my bag looking for any old item to maintain the façade that I was unavailable for chit chat. All of this was in the hope that my kids wouldn’t run to their parents and reveal the truth: I am a social freak.
Though I'm back in the motherland, with my Parisian discomforts behind me, I’m continuing to trip over life’s hurdles. I’ve been tickled by embarrassment on one-too-many occasions of late. My body, from its skin to its core, has become an all-encompassing itch. London houses an irksome number of opportunities to experience daily public humiliation. As every date and destination is an hour away in this colossal city, I’m going through life as a lone wanderer, with nobody to giggle to after each fall or graze. To call these daily disgraces itchy is by no means metaphorical; once another of life's hiccups strikes me, my whole body is taken over by an uncomfortable tingle that can only be ceased by means of a scratch or itch.
I start my daily commute by strolling over to catch a bus or a tube, and every couple of days, my means of transport will already be at my stop as I’m approaching it. So, to be certain I’ll board my chariot before it vacates, I’ll add a skip to each step I take, or perhaps run slightly if needs be. I’ll then arrive to what I believe to be just in the nick of time. Sweating and looking rather smug, I’ll find an available seat and attempt to catch my breath. Whilst my panting turns to a more dignified in for two out for two, I'll realise that I am still not moving – which continues for a further four or five minutes. This is when the itchiness begins. I’ll sit there cringing at my frantic entrance whilst those who are sitting around me comfortably gawp at my momentary exhaustion.
Twenty minutes pass by and it’s time for me to charge up the escalators back into the London smog. In fear of being late to an office that is normally empty, I briskly weave through the sea of nine-to-fivers and head over Blackfriars bridge. As I pick up momentum and feel like nothing could stop me in my tracks, my pathway is intruded by the rats of the sky. I'm of course referring to London’s pigeons. The city’s pigeons are as similarly reckless as those I met whilst in Paris. Unlike the infrequent sightings of pigeons that I’d become accustomed to during my village days, these grey pests can be found pecking at crumbs and cigarette buts in every direction you turn. Though fit for flying great distances, these birds will rarely be seen flying higher than the average person’s eyeline. Consequently, I feel like I’m trapped in a continuous game of chicken with the pigeons of London. Each morning, a courageous pigeon flies towards my face as I’m marching towards the office. Each morning, I cling onto the tiny glimmer of hope that said pigeon will swerve to the left or veer to the right. Yet, each morning, I find myself ducking for these winged vermin; those of whom pathways are vast and limitless.
In recent weeks, I’ve noticed myself stumbling over my words more than usual. I’ll be unable to deliver my desired sentence or joke and will have to do that garish tongue-out thing and attempt to speak again. At times, I've anticipated a tongue-tie, so I'll hold back with what I planned to say, meaning by the time I’m ready and confident that I’ll be comprehensible, the conversation topic has passed; meaning the world is missing out on yet another one of my riotous gags. As my frustration and incompetence grows, I’ve started stating to my friends that I’m a ‘social freak’. I thought this would be met with similar frustrating stories of stutters and stammers, yet I’m told to quieten down and stop falsely proclaiming my social freakdom. So, maybe all these idiosyncrasies are in my head? Maybe my housemate is right in her proclamation that I’m showing signs of confirmation bias. But one thing is certainly true, people and pigeons need to learn to get out of my walkway.