Day 1: Lost in the Dark
Some days you plan to talk to strangers. Some days the universe forces you to do it.
It’s day one and I’m living every millennial’s nightmare. That’s a poetic way of saying that my smartphone has died.
I’m in an area I don’t know, looking for a train station I’ve never been to. To make matters worse, it’s a windy, cold February afternoon with about an hour of daylight left.
A woman and her son are walking towards me. I put on my best ‘I’m totally normal’ face and say ‘Sorry, do you know where Hamstead station is?’
The brisk shake of her head tells me she’s not in the mood to chat but I try my luck.
‘Thanks anyway. I love your coat by the way…’ No, she’s already gone, shuffling her child into the distance.
Day 2: An Awkward Train Chat
On the train, I’ve landed myself a table seat opposite a brunette with wiry glasses. She hasn’t taken her coat off and she’s engrossed in a Hilary Mantel book.
Interrupting someone mid-page is a social faux pas. On the other hand, I haven’t spoken to a stranger at all today and this might be the best opportunity I get.
About 20 minutes before we pull into Sheffield station, I gain the courage to speak up.
‘Excuse me, would you recommend that? I’ve always thought about reading it but it looks so long and intimidating and-’
Oh god, I’m rambling and the woman looks up with a blank stare. To be fair, I’ve been minding my business the entire journey and then randomly launched into a TED talk.
I’d be confused too. After a second, whatever I said computes and she answers me.
I’d like to say she smiled and we relaxed comfortably into a literary chinwag. I’d like to say we swapped numbers and we’re starting a long-distance book club via Zoom.
Neither of these things happened. We had a stilted conversation and she told me two things; yes, I should have read Wolf Hall by now and no, she hasn’t seen the BBC adaptation.
Day 3: Co-working Conversations
My co-working space ought to be ideal for cornering unsuspecting strangers. I go mainly for the complimentary coffee and plastic plant vibes, but rarely talk to the other workers.
Today I make it my mission to find someone by the coffee machine and dazzle them with my wits, or at least, have a casual chat.
About an hour in, a guy I often wanders up to the counter and I make my move, sidling up next to him.
‘How’s your Tuesday going? I’m bored already.’
Miraculously, the line works and he starts telling me about the Zoom meeting that kicked off his day.
It’s not the most riveting chat but we speak for at least a minute before filling our cups. It’s a small win. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask him what star sign he is.
Day 4: The Middle Cubicle
‘Are you in the middle cubicle?’
I am. I’ve just locked the door and wasn’t exactly expecting anyone in the Spoons toilet to talk to me. I pause—maybe she’s after her friend—but no one replies.
‘Yeah?’
‘Oh it’s just because there’s no loo roll in there. I can pass you some?’
She’s washing her hands when I come out of the cubicle and I thank her.
‘I didn’t want you to think I was a weirdo but I went in there first and noticed and thought maybe you hadn’t… but then when you didn’t answer, I thought “Oh no, she does think I’m a weirdo”.’
I reassured her that I didn’t think that but couldn’t think of an organic way to further the conversation. It was hardly the time or the place.
Day 5: Cecil the Dog
A man outside my apartment building is staring into a bush. As I get closer, I’m relieved to see he’s watching Yorkshire Terrier mosey around.
‘Oh hiiii,’ I say as if talking to a small child. ‘What are you called?’ As suspected, the man is friendly and tells me that his dog’s name is Cecil.
I lean down for a stroke but he sniffs my hand and looks away. ‘He’s not a morning dog,’ says his owner.
‘That’s okay, I’m not a morning person,’ I reply. We talk for a minute about the weather and how it makes it hard to get up and out early. It’s pleasant but relatively meaningless.
Day 6: Divorce in the Toilets
Blow-up willies and novelty straws at the ready; it’s hen party time. Along with nine other women, I wander down the cobbled streets of York in search of my next victim.
I’ve stolen the hen’s ‘Bride’ headband and am washing my hands in the toilet when I catch the eye of the girl next to me. I say hi.
‘Are you getting married? I’m just about to get divorced…’ I lie and say yes, I am, in fact, getting married. Then I ask what happened.
While I can’t proclaim to remember the details — thanks for the Jägers, Anna — we had a classic women’s bathroom chat. I do recall telling her to enjoy being single. ‘Oh, I will,’ she replied.
Day 7: The New Housemate
Moving into a house share at 32 was not how I envisioned my life going but that’s another story for another day. Renee, my new housemate, opens the door and smiles broadly.
‘Hi, I’m Charlotte. Sorry I’m a bit late…’
She’s friendly and chatty; helping me take my bags up to my new room and sitting on the floor while I unpack. She even offers my friend some chocolate when she’s hungry and we launch into a semi awkward getting-to-know-you chat.
Of course, this is a unique situation. I know I’m going to be living with her for at least six months, so finding common ground is essential.
We cover a lot from her PhD thesis and sci-fi to our mutual love of Black Books and how we both firmly believe we’re Bernard Black. It’s a promising start to our new cohabiting life.
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