Ask me anything

"Henry, do you drive?"

Madonna engaged in a conversation (Credit: Alan Light)

“Henry, do you drive?”

This is not the first time my husband has been asked this question, nor even the second, fifth or fifteenth. It’s not that my Dad is any more forgetful than his contemporaries or compared with his younger self. Rather, sensitive Pisces and consummate salesman that he is, he’s preternaturally incapable of letting a conversation go on too long without involving everyone at the table.

Had we been discussing family ski trips, the theatre or that rare topic untouched by the British class system, that would have formed the basis of the question. I mention this for a couple of reasons. First, because you’re never too old to gently mock your father’s foibles. And second, by way of caveating what comes next:

Yes, I grew up in a household full of questions. How was school, who did you sit next to at lunch, what’s the homework situation? We even had The Jewish Book of Why on the shelf (volumes one and two!). This was normal, but as I know now, not necessarily typical.

So, I get it. Not every catch-up need be a grilling by other means or mutual exchange of information. Still, as I grow older, and my own esotericisms become grist for someone else’s mill, I find myself ever more perturbed by those who apparently consider conversation to be a one-way street at best, a chance to perform their one-person show at worst. And their number appears to be multiplying.

How often do you find yourself chatting with ‘an other’ for an extended period of time, only to realise that, hey, they haven’t asked me a single question yet somehow I know where their kids go to school and what brand of toothpaste they use.¹