Persons

This is a piece of fiction. I love noticing the odd and curious things about people. Here's a little example:

So far, I'd met a few odd characters on my door-to-door research survey on television viewing in the neighbourhood;  all different characters, in keeping with the dictionary definition I'd read earlier that day. Apparently the word person comes from the Latin word for mask, and refers to playing a part, acting on the stage of life, so to speak.

And that reminds me that I had an aunt who played the role of a 'touchy' person. It was interesting going shopping with her. No matter what shop or place we were passing, if it took her fancy in she'd walk and begin touching things. Fruit, vegetables, furniture, kitchen utensils, but fabrics especially. An extra-sensory faculty seemed to switch on to automatic when touching these. She'd positively purr if the fabric passed a certain in-built test, and her voice would take on a stuffy pommie accent which I think she thought sounded like an announcer on the BBC. "Oh yes," she'd murmur, half to herself and half to anyone else in the vicinity. "Quality material, this." It did no harm as far as I could see; it was in fact a kind of therapy for her. And then we've move on. She couldn't buy though, she could only dream.

It was at home that her touchiness got out of kilter. Especially if she hadn't been 'round to see us for a few weeks. Then she'd put on her mask and shift into touch mode again. I can still remember at the age of eight, when most lads prefer touching things that can be eaten rather than fussy, well-meaning aunts who bosom-hugged so that you could hardly breathe. It would start with, "Come here then our Dennis, and let me look at you. My, haven't you grown!" My hair would be stroked as she murmured, "Oh yes, lovely hair. It's just like your Uncle Geroge's, you know." Then she'd plant sloppy kisses over my entire face before taking hold of my hands. "And lovely hands. Piano playing hands those, you know." Oh no they're not, I'd groan to myself. My younger sister had pounded the ivories and it had been murder, for us all, from the start. Nature came to our aid, thankfully, as a sore throat and rash took her over for a week, and after she'd recovered she'd lost all interest in things musical, and peace returned.

Later, I had been musing on the fact that Shakespeare came after the dictionary definition of person, when I switched my thoughts to the person I'd spoken to whilst conducting my research survey on television viewing, two doors down. "I'm not a television person," she'd said quietly, her look implying that I ought to recognise she'd been elevated to a higher social and intellectual status because of that. She seemd a rather pathetic creature, thin of figure and gaunt of face as she spoke. She was unwilling to pass on any of the information the survey sought, but she did give me a frosty smile from behind the desk in her small office as I left. If Shakespeare was right, that we are all players on the stage of life, she'd landed a lousy part I thought, and I felt sorry for her.

Dennis Crompton © 1997