Don’t put a dampener on small talk about the weather

What happened to our Indian summer?” Try this as a conversational gambit and the world divides. A few supercilious types will harrumph at your attempt at small talk, signalling scorn for anyone who doesn’t kick off a chat with detailed analysis of the conflict in Yemen. But for almost everyone else, discussing the weather is the human equivalent of a dog’s friendly sniff of a fellow mutt’s bottom – an accepted form of introduction that opens up an avenue of light response only the most churlish would disdain.

According to a survey released this week, the British spend about two hours every week (or five conversations) talking about the weather. What this indicates to me is not a paucity of imagination, but an admirable mustering against that common foe, the elements. We Brits are prone to petty disputes – hedge wars and mistrust of our neighbours. Without the bad weather to bond us, we might go out marauding and pillaging in the shires.

I don’t just relish being facile about the weather; I can be glib about domestic pets, minor ailments, traffic flow on the M25, Jeremy Corbyn and comedy shows on Radio Four. I owe this trait to my mother, who ran a country pub for 34 years and was a high priestess of idle banter. I particularly admired her ability to talk to elderly blokes about their giant marrows.

I grew up observing that small talk is the necessary light buffer between one human being and another. It displays warmth, decorum and a desire to interconnect, without encroaching too far on their interior space.

There are few things more threatening to your average Brit than a stranger demanding instant intimacy and to know what they “really think” on a given topic. We are simply not constructed to deal with dark truths on a constant basis. About 15 years ago my family suffered our own annus horribilis and my husband became a bit Ancient Mariner about it all. I still remember the look of horror in an acquaintance’s eyes as he made the mistake of asking my spouse how he was.

“Fine,” came the answer, “except for the fact we lost a pregnancy because the baby had a chromosomal disorder, then my father fell into a fire, suffered 80 per cent burns and died in hospital, and my wife’s mother has terminal cancer.”

This is why I never feel ashamed that some ingrained form of cultural programming makes me spout on about rain as soon as I climb into a cab. I’m just putting my driver at ease and signalling I’m not a psychopath.

There are times when small talk can help you to identify and skewer foes. I was at a friend’s 60th birthday party a decade ago, when it transpired that three academics were travelling back to my home town of Cambridge. As they were all 20 years older than me and worried about catching the train, I flagged down a taxi, ushered everyone into it and then instigated polite chit-chat, before steering them to the right platform.

At this point, one of the trio (a woman whose face was etched with disdain) announced: “I’ve never heard anyone say so many trivial things in so short a space of time. I can’t abide small talk.”

This allowed me to respond: “I cannot abide unkindness or intellectual snobbery.”

And so I sat elsewhere on the train with my copy of Grazia and allowed myself a smidgeon of pity for those doomed to discuss Kierkegaard.