Jackie McGregor: Drop the Americanisms: my weekend is none of your business
I watched sympathetically as panic flickered across the young man’s face as he scrambled for a reply to the pretty receptionist who had just asked: “Any plans for the weekend?”
For a brief, awkward moment, he seemed to think she was flirting with him.
He hesitated, concentrating hard on swiping his card while he searched for the right words.
“Er, I’ll probably do a bit of gaming,” he said, then quickly added, “with my friends.” He seemed keen to make it clear he wasn’t Billy No-mates, spending the whole weekend alone in a darkened room with a PlayStation.
His facial expression of regret said it all as he left, probably mentally rehearsing a more exciting weekend activity for next time – a parachute jump for charity, perhaps.
I was sitting in the physiotherapist’s waiting room on Friday morning, right by the reception desk, doing my usual people watching, waiting anxiously to have the physio’s thumbs dig into places I didn’t even know I had places.
The receptionist’s next victim was an elderly man.
He looked like he’d just been tenderised with a meat mallet. He was visibly weary and uncomfortable and was having difficulty negotiating putting his glasses on and finding the correct cash in his wallet.
“So, any plans for the weekend?” she chirped.
He stopped and looked at her, rather surprised by her query. “Just taking it easy,” he sighed before limping off into the distance.
I had already begun to mentally prepare my answer. I certainly wasn’t going to share that my weekend plans entailed sitting in my pyjamas, eating my own body weight in crisps and catching up on the televisual smut-fest, “Rivals.”
I noticed there was quite a difference in the generational responses as more punters paid and completed the interrogation of weekend plans on their way out.
The older generation answered unperturbed with responses like, “doing a bit of weeding,” or “walking the dog.” Whereas younger people practically underwent an existential crisis at the till, probably not wanting to admit they had nothing planned.
It forced the choice of making something up, rather than let an attractive stranger know they’ll be doomscrolling, or ironing their socks.
In this age of photographing their dinner and documenting every movement on social media, a quiet life is a failed life to many of the younger generation.
This “forced bonding” is yet another Americanism that’s found its way into our culture along with street WhatsApp groups and “have a nice day” wishes, which, let’s be honest, sound vaguely like a threatening command when delivered in a Belfast accent.
I’m not fond of performing a social audit when paying for a service. It feels invasive, especially, if like me, your life is a daily dose of more of the same, with a dash of ditto.
This customer services script, mandated from some corporate headquarters, is designed to make us feel like valued customers through forced intimacy.
We don’t need it!
For generations we have managed to navigate our way through over-the-counter chit-chat. If we want to talk, we will, without having to declare our weekend itinerary.
And let’s face it, for most of us, the ultimate goal for our 48 hours of freedom is to secretly slip into elasticated-waist trousers and enjoy the blissful, unscripted art of doing absolutely nothing.