These days I get out more, meet new people and – as with the
unchanging spots on a leopard – I ask them questions. Initially to help me get
work done; latterly, when I’m impressed by the quality of the answers.
I’ll call S a charity worker even though that’s inexact. What’s
true is her work demands a sense of vocation, certain aspects would put off
someone less sympathetic, she immediately gets on with people and she’s
well-informed. Her husband is also “not exactly” a charity worker but is much
closer to being one.
The obfuscation is intentional.
S’s answers to my questions were not only factual but
reassuring. I didn’t want to waste her time but the atmosphere suggested a
couple of minutes’ chat wouldn’t go amiss. “Just suppose,” I said, “you and
your husband were faced with an unexpected day off; how would you ideally spend
it?”
“Reading,” she said.
Break for stage
directions. Journalistic questions are not plucked from the ether; many are
intended to provoke a foreseen (possibly revelatory) answer. But not in this
case. I had no real idea beforehand. If I say I was surprised by the answer it
might imply I’d seen S as a non-reader. Perish the thought! I was, in fact,
delighted. End of break.
I do a lot of reading, myself (less so in old age, I fear). Mainly when the
mood takes me. But am I such a devoted print-lover as to allocate a whole day
to a book? The answer must be no. Am I missing out, then? Might there be bigger
rewards if I were?
A situation that had me – agreeably – questioning myself.
Pure gold.
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