‘ How to survive Corridor Cringe’ and other 21st century afflictions
T SOME point in one’s daily life, The Long Corridor Walk will come to pass. It happens to me at work about four times a day, and involves moving 50m down the passage from the coffee station towards another person approaching from the other end. It’s not the exercise that scares me – although, frankly, I think management should look into a travelator – but what to do with my body and face during those interminable minutes between reaching the other person and passing them.
My oncoming traffic is usually the handsome car magazine editor from the next-door office or the building administrator with the Tom Selleck moustache. Now, these are polite men, good men. They are fragrant and never wear fleeces, they have never murdered anyone, and as far as I’m aware neither is part of a cult.
Yet, when I am faced with walking towards them down a passage, my heart pounds, my mouth twists and I start humming Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You, which sometimes morphs into Bridge Over Troubled Water, which is exactly what I wish for when I’m pretending to be concerned about the quality of the Frisco in my mug.
Everyone has their own approach to the, um, approach. Some hold their heads up high, stride towards the oncoming person and greet them from 20m away. They might ask after their kids, mention
Athe weather or compliment them on their shoes. These are either very confident people or, more likely, extremely good actors – because I KNOW I’m not the only person who feels the corridor cringe.
Others use the I Forgot I Take Sugar In My Coffee technique. This involves starting down the corridor, spotting the approaching person and then swiftly turning back towards the safety of the hot beverages corner, where they pretend to be spooning sugar into their cup.
I once tried something similar in a supermarket when I spotted an exboyfriend shopping for courgettes with his new wife. I smacked myself on the forehead (a little too hard), muttered something about forgetting eggs and spent the next 10 minutes hiding behind a display of baked beans. He tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d lost something.
I have observed some people at work doing the Bits Of Leftover Shrimp In A Bowl approach. They try to make themselves as small as possible and stick to the passage walls, inching along them as though they’re slathered in olive oil. At the moment when they pass the other person, they turn pink, flash a small smile and slither on their way.
I fall into the Carpets Are Fascinating camp. This is an improvement on my previous technique, Ceilings Are Amazing, which I adopted at university during scurries between lectures. Back then, a lot of us thought ceilings were amazing, so it wasn’t weird to pass other people who also stared at the heavens. But that technique only works if you have a nonchalant Goth look, a nose ring and a very supple neck. Now that I have a neck as stiff as a pontiff ’s finger, the fascinating carpet is a sensible alternative.
This is how it works: start walking down corridor. See handsome car editor/Tom Selleck approaching. Pretend to be concerned about quality of coffee in mug. Avert eyes further to take in the magnificence of the carpet tiles. Notice the popcorn kernel someone has dropped, the stray bits of wiry blue pile.
Furtively peer up from under fringe to assess distance to subject. Frown as though deep in thought about Syrian refugees. Examine carpet even closer, without bending down (too weird). See how some corners are peeling back like dog’s tongues. Then, when draft of handsome
TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 29
2015 HELEN SAW: A lot of blue carpet tiles, a kernel of popcorn, some terrible coffee and fleeting passing faces
THIS WEEK
car editor/Tom Selleck can be felt, look up quickly, smile and say “Howzit”.
I know. It’s pathetic. I have the social skills of a peg bag. So the other day, I tried to remedy it. I got into a lift with a woman. She pressed the 12th-floor button, I hit the 13th. Lift-riding also involves a variety of techniques: the Stare At The Ascending Lights approach; the Check Facebook For Updates On Cats; the Pick Imaginary Hairs Off Jacket; the Discover Tiny Universes In Fingernails.
During this, my first foray into being a well-adjusted stranger, I would do none of these. I would also not talk about the weather, sigh or moan about crime.
For the first few floors, I stared at the woman, wondering what to say. She was looking for tiny universes in her fingernails. I thought about complimenting her on her shoes, but they looked very uncomfortable and a little gnomey.
At the 12th floor, the lift pinged, the doors opened and the woman stepped out. “Hey,” I called after her. She turned around, looking slightly nervous. “I really like your weather.” “Sorry?” she said. “I said, is your jacket real leather?” Before she could answer, the doors clamped shut, the lift rose and my heart sank. Not only had I failed in this one, simple exercise, but if I met the woman again, I would have to perform the most intricate Long Corridor Walk technique known to humankind.
I should have just kept my mouth shut.