Etiquette

I’m a bit short of medical news this week, although I do think that people with etiquette problems have a gene missing.

However, it is sometimes acceptable to do something a bit cheeky. Recently, I found myself in the extremely rare position of a) having a smart, work-ish dinner to go to around Green Park b) being early. So I rang up a great friend (who has asked to remain nameless – you’ll see why in a minute) who works nearby and she suggested we have a quick drink at a frightful Eurotrash bar on Berkeley St, for reasons of proximity.

Gosh I felt out of place. Probably because I am the sort of person who says gosh.

It was practically pitch black, with several categories of waitress geisha who could show you to your very low seat, or hand you a 28-page drinks menu, but couldn’t take your order.

But they did provide a big bowl of rather nice nuts. So big in fact, that there were still quite a lot left. As the incognito friend had other friends coming for supper later, we joked how convenient it would be if she could take them home. If only we had a suitable container.

Aha! Suddenly I wasn’t out of place, I was in my element. I may not wear heels, or make-up newer than two years old any more, but I can be relied upon to have useful crap in my bag. And thus it was that I discovered the world’s first genuine use for a parking ticket.

The little plastic, resealable bag they come in. Perfect for stealing food from restaurants! Women of the UK, breathe out. There is a (tiny) silver lining to having got that penalty charge notice. There is a way to to make it add a (miniscule) bit of value back into your life.

So we did it. And maybe it was rude, and wrong, but I don’t care. So is charging £5 for a glass of fizzy water.

What are rude and wrong, though, are bad swimming pool manners. I have wanted to write about this for some time, but have held back for fear of confirming myself as London’s most small-minded blogger. Seeing as I’ve blown that with ticket-bag-nut-gate, I’ll crack on.

I swim twice a week, fairly early, and usually in an outdoor pool. Partly so as to wake myself up and organise my thoughts, as I have some of my best (okay, only) writing ideas whilst swimming. But mostly so I can casually drop it into conversation later on that day, to accidentally impress people and help me nurse a kernel of virtuousness that will see me through another three biscuits.

But lordy, is it a minefield when it’s busy. It is a fascinating study in human zoology to see who will move over when another swimmer enters the pool, and who pretends not to notice.

I tend to stay away from the serious swimmers – you know, the ones who wear hats. And have water bottles at one end. But there is a man in our pool who is, quite frankly, not on. He looks a bit like Crocodile Dundee’s bad-tempered older brother. He is thin, weatherbeaten and WEARS A WETSUIT. It is a heated pool.

Not only does he never move over, sometimes he swims unnecessarily close to you just to prove a point about staying exactly on the length he was on. Twice he has touched me, as he flapped past. Me, a pregnant lady!

Now, there are rules about touching strangers in public. We all know the ones about the tube. It’s absolutely fine to meld your entire body into someone when you’re both standing up at rush hour, and not say a word. But as a stander, if you even nudge the foot of a sitter, while you’re trying to balance all your weight on one foot and hold the rail in a way that doesn’t show your armpit sweat mark, you must apologise.

Crocodile Grumpee has even been observed to pause at one end at say ‘Disgraceful’ when some poor unsuspecting woman has the gumption to start doing careful backstroke next to him.

In the summer, a Frenchman came into my lane with his son, aged about eight, I’d say. For a while, papa would give some instructions, then do a demo length with garçon in tow. Or garçon would go first. Fine.

Then, as I turned at one end, I saw them swimming side by side towards me. It was parallel lesson time. I swam towards them. Exciting, incredible, what would happen?! I gave in. To avoid collision, I stopped and stood aside to let them carry on, still abreast, around me. We did this two more times, with my anti-French spleen rising, then bottling, before I moved as the next lane emptied. Is it pathetic to have found this so extraordinary?

Perhaps there’s a way of giving them a special opposite-of-parking ticket, sans useful bag, posted into their locker.