The September tax: the agonising ordeal of other people’s anecdotes

In the real world – that is to say, the world that resumed on 1 September – there is, unfortunately, a price to pay for the official return to the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Alongside emails, which for a week seemed to have vanished (apart from the instant ‘out of office’ replies that some people, perhaps to protect themselves, have not yet deactivated), I am witnessing the grand return of the ‘anecdote tax’. Or rather, to be honest, the tax consists precisely of anecdotes: the obligation to sit through a certain number of them, usually directly proportional to the number of days spent ‘out of office’.

A form of atonement, for those who believe in atonement. Other people’s anecdotes that we are expected to listen to so that we can call ourselves well-mannered, sociable and properly reintegrated into civilised life after the August holidays. One might object: ‘Come on, surely you must have encountered some anecdote-spinning individuals during your holiday – people who, after a drink, decide to entertain the entire Greek taverna with tales of their A-level exams.’ The honest answer is: yes, but I was on holiday, so I was in a good mood, and usually the people you choose to go on holiday with are also selected based on the quantity and quality of anecdotes they’ll bring with them in their suitcases. And then, as time drags on, the anecdotes fade away, they plunge into the sea, and soon become memories that are even pleasant, even comical. Instead, September arrives as if to punish us, bringing both the holiday anecdotes (well past their sell-by date—who wants to hear about jellyfish or edelweiss?) and the grand pomposity of those who have ‘rested’ on holiday (I cannot use the expression: ‘recharge your batteries’ – I promised that many, many years ago) and now, puffed up with arrogance, devote themselves to driving others to distraction, whilst thinking, however, that deep down this isn’t such a heavy burden: have you chosen to return to the world brimming with good intentions and resolutions for a fruitful autumn? Then behave yourself and listen, without looking for ways to escape. My daughter argues that anecdotes are primarily a function of age: after a certain point, people feel they have much to recount and little to interrogate; others simply must listen. I contend it is also a matter of gender (male): men are prolific producers of anecdotes.

They wield them much as children once used water pistols at the seaside: firing continuously, dashing back to the drinking fountain to refill, and aiming at anyone in sight. In such situations, I raise my hands and remain silent, hoping the ordeal will end soon. Presumably this gentleman will tire of it eventually, will he not? Certainly not because he will realise that his anecdotes are unacceptable and that the smile on my face is one of exasperation: the anecdote-teller, also known as the ‘tormentor’, revelles in the sound of his own voice and in the guaranteed comic effect – or at least the impression of immense interest – and has probably already tormented others with that anecdote before me. Nothing can stop him, except the so-called ‘downpour’, which is as much a feature of these late-summer days as the scourge of anecdotes. On each occasion, I resolve to be firm and say: ‘Sorry, but I have a fire to put out.’ Or, more challenging still, I resolve to be honest: ‘I am not interested in what that flirtatious tennis coach told you, nor am I interested in what happened to your cousin from Busto Arsizio five years ago.’ And yet, every time, I simply stand there, hoping for a cloudburst or the appearance of another candidate for a forced anecdote. But little by little, even September will come to an end, and then, like hard-working ants, we’ll have plenty of anecdotes stashed away for the winter.