EAR TO THE WALL

Ndumiso Ngcobo on the educational value of eavesdropping

I can neither confirm nor deny any resemblance to a rodent on Debbie’s part

ONE of the occupational hazards of writing for a living is the disproportionate time one spends in restaurants and coffee shops with one’s lonesome self as the only company. In my case this is mostly due to the cooped-up syndrome, which often drives me out of my normal writing crevice. Creativity tends to thrive on fresh scenery.

Sometimes one gets attacked by ideas while in transit and waiting until you get home is not an option. I have found myself writing from the former Keg at OR Tambo, the garden at the Inkamana Abbey guesthouse in Vryheid, the Wimpy in Hartbeespoort and even that Jozi Diner spot on the New Road bridge over the N1, in Midrand. Heck I’ve even found myself with my laptop on my lap in the passenger seat of a rental car with Mrs N driving us through the Cape Winelands. And yes, my conjugal privileges were severely curtailed for this indiscretion.

Dining alone is frowned upon by society. Nothing says “loser without a social life” quite like arriving at a restaurant and announcing to the hostess that you are dining alone. And by “announcing”, I mean mumbling to her ear as softly as possible, “Table for one, please”. This is, of course, almost invariably followed by her shouting to a waitron at the other end of the restaurant, “TABLE FOR ONE FOR THE GENTLEMAN!”.

I’ve even tried to circumvent the “loser” tag by making up phantom dates. All this achieves, of course, is the waitron bringing you two sets of menus and then, every two minutes, asking “Is your lady friend still joining you, sir?”.

I always end up seeking distraction from this “loser” situation by listening in on fellow diners’ conversations. Yes, that’s correct. I’m a serial eavesdropper in public spaces. And over the years, I have honed my snooping skills into sharp, private-conversation-intercepting machinery. This is quite a feat considering that I estimate my hearing to be 75% at best after the years I spent at Club Genesis in Durban over two decades ago.

I can “accidentally” overhear a conversation barely above whispers in a crowded restaurant 7m away. If David Mahlobo, the Minister of State Security, Spooks and Whatnot, had deployed me in the greater Tshwane area, I would have intercepted conversations and foiled the plot that rendered Mamelodi, Atteridgeville and Hammanskraal a pyromaniac’s paradise this week.

The first secret to eavesdropping on other people’s conversations in restaurants is location. An amateur snoop will choose a seat next to the exit, underneath a speaker or right next to the kitchen. No good. Too much interference with the really juicy chats among the patrons.

This is, of course, unless you’re interested the staff kitchen’s banter, which is always about the 17 customers at Table 8 who are keeping a waitress hostage with orders for tap water, two glasses at a time. Or the beetroot-faced gentleman at Table 11 who is complaining about everything from the tea that’s not hot enough to beer that is not cold enough to the medium-rare steak that is not rare enough and how, if he continues, he’s flirting with getting “special sauce” with his meal.

But if you’re interested in the real juice, you need to position yourself “strategically”, to borrow a word abused and overused in Luthuli House policy documents. By strategically, I mean getting a table in the centre of four other tables forming a diamond around you.

I recently hit this jackpot at an eatery on 4th Street in Parkhurst. About 2.5m west of my table were three colleagues who work for a petrochemical company. The thrust of their conversation was a senior manager I will call Petey who was allowing the fact that he is doing a fair amount of nocturnal “thrusting” with Debbie the Rat to influence him to appoint her project manager on a key campaign.

It must be a popular spot for employees of this company because, believe it or not, Debbie the Rat made an appearance, with another colleague, half an hour later. I can neither confirm nor deny any resemblance to a rodent on Debbie’s part.

About 2m to my north, next to a giant pot plant, sat a couple I will call Wayne and Samantha. I call the guy Wayne because Wayne is a good name for a serial philanderer. Apparently Wayne’s WhatsApp texts had recently been accessed by Samantha and for her, this was the last straw. Wayne’s sole obsession was the breach of his privacy.

At some point the argument got heated and Samantha wanted to put “that wretched woman” on speakerphone to settle the matter. I’m sad to reveal that Wayne vetoed this suggestion. It would have been epic.

The table to my south were having a mind-numbingly dull conversation restricted to, “How’s your pasta?” and “Can I taste some of your pesto?”. Either that or they were on to the eavesdropper in their midst.

The reason I’m sharing this is to reiterate the adage, “it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations”. Eavesdropping is like most things that are socially frowned upon, such as picking your nose, staring

I call the guy Wayne because Wayne is a good name for a serial philanderer