My housemate and I have been friends for more than 20 years and on the way to the tube station last week, via memory lane, the topic of conversation turned to childhood.
We started talking about living with our parents, the things we used to annoy them and their, often failed, attempts at trying to rein us in.
All the standard fare got a mention. The ‘wait until your father gets home’, the grounding (usually lasting for just a few hours) and the often underrated, and now frowned upon, slap.
Then out of nowhere, he said: “Did you ever get accused of showing off?”
It was something I had long forgotten and brought back vivid memories of the hundreds of occasions when my Mum, trying to get me to stop acting up when we had company, would level the immortal accusation.
“All the time,” I said. “And it always worked!”
And it did. The words could make the most unruly teenager stop in their tracks and rack their brains for the best response.
But there isn’t one. And therein was its power.
What could you say that wouldn’t make things worse? Denying that you were showing off always made it look as if you were being nonchalant about showing off – thus making you look even more like a show off.
And admitting to it made you look arrogant. It was like saying “I am showing off. And what of it?”
There was even the schoolmate version. If your mates ever needed to bring you down a peg or two they could accuse you of fancying someone – the least appealing the better because whatever you said just made things worse.
It’s the golden ticket of controlling behaviour – I just wish there was an adult equivalent.
The majority of people I have spoken to in the past few days will probably have forgotten the sound of my voice already.
It’s nothing personal – I don’t stutter, I don’t have a serious lisp and I don’t squeak. My voice is that of a bog standard man, with a Luton dialect and a spattering of slang.
But all bets are off if you call me in the office.
People who have spoken to me on my work number would certainly remember my high-pitched, overly-eloquent, trying-to-sound-important-but-failing tones.
Anyone who wants evidence of this need only call the office after 6pm to behold my business answerphone message in all its glory.
Admittedly, at first I thought it was just me. Then I was able to listen closely to my colleagues and knew I was in good company.
Even my contacts at other companies do it.
One lady I met sounded like Kathy Burke when I met her face-to-face, which was particularly funny as I mistook her for Joanna Lumley when she phoned me the day before.
But what is the reason for the plummy, over the top, wordy way of speaking to business contacts when most people talk to their mates they are just their usual foul-mouthed, inarticulate selves?
What is it about the office phone that turns Len Goodman into Stephen Fry?
Is it a need to feel comfortable among colleagues and contacts? Is it to impress others? Or do we all secretly want to sound posh. And do posh sounding people use more slang and drop their ‘t’s when speaking on the office phone?
My conclusion is that I don’t know. It’s a complete mystery to me.
