Today I've been immersed in writing some copy for the launch of a new comedy project which I'm sure I will mention on this blog at some point. I can get a little bit OCD when it comes to copywriting, tweaking sentences until they are just right and spending far too long with increasingly diminishing returns (which is why the more rough and ready style demanded by my self-imposed Blovember is going to take a little getting used to). Unless you're a poet or a novelist there really is no point spending a whole day writing something it will take people a couple of minutes to read.
Anyway, I've been a bit of a recluse, leaving the house only once, to buy a packet of Maltesers from the local shop.
There are three guys who work in the shop where I buy my chocolate. One is big and quite jolly, one is skinny and a bit cool, and the other is short and a bit shy. The big, jolly one and the skinny, cool one have both worked there for several years. The short, shy one is a bit newer.
When the short, shy one first appeared on the scene there was a day when the big, jolly one was there at the same time, showing him the ropes. When I walked in, he said: “Ah, this man likes a Twirl, but we haven't got any here, so let me show you where we keep them in the back.” That was the day I made the following mental note: When the guy who runs the local sweet shop remembers your ‘usual’, it's time to cut back on the chocolate, or at least spread your business around a bit.
It's the jolly one who seems to be on duty during the day and over the last two or three years I must have bought something from him (usually a Twirl) on somewhere between fifty and a hundred different occasions. And each time I yearn to be able to muster more than the very basic level of conversation required to complete my chocolatey transaction.
But given the long history of almost identical exchanges, it now seems very artificial to suddenly try to up the conversational ante. However, I have experimented, sometimes unintentionally, with slight variations to the routine...
Fairly recently, for reasons that now escape me, I started calling the big, jolly man “boss” in an embryonic attempt at friendly banter. I should point out that the big, jolly man and I are not the same colour, and after my new monicker was twice greeted with a lukewarm reception it did occur to me that it might come across as some kind of ironic racism.
This was confirmed when I saw someone else, in another shop, using exactly the same term to address the guy behind the till and it was immediately clear that the whole thing had cotton plantation written all over it. You obviously have to factor in intent and context, but even taking that into account, I quickly stopped referring to my daytime Twirl-dealer as “boss”.
The other time that I deviated from my normal routine, was when I went in late one evening to buy a bottle of wine from the skinny, cool guy, and accidentally said “Night night” instead of “Good night” on the way out.
