the lost art of conversation.

I worked over the weekend. Just for a few hours. But while I was there, I got myself to wondering about the art of small talk. I'm afraid I just don't have it. I don't possess the ability to carry on for a long period of time about nothing at all. For that is what it is, you know! Just an endless flow of "how are you's" and "good thank you's", all just utterly nonsense things until, if continued for long enough, it finally leads to an interesting conversation with a bit more depth and insight. I find it's usually the kind of person that I'm talking to that determines how far into the nothings need to be spoken before moving on to more intellectual, brain-cell using, really know another person's thought on a subject kind of conversation. Sadly though, I know far too many people who hover over that small talk precipace for far too long and before they know it, that's all they know as to how to carry on a conversation.

Here is an except from the very amusing conversation that Eliza Doolittle has to everybody when she goes to the races. She truely has the talent where I do not because she could just go on and on...

"It's the new small talk, you do it so awfully well."

Mrs. Eynsford-Hill: I do hope we wont have any unseasonable cold spells, they bring on so much influenza. And the whole of our family is succeptable to it.

Eliza Doolittle: My Aunt died of influenza, or so they said. But its my belief they done the old woman in.

Mrs. Higgings: Done her in?

Eliza Doolittle: Yes, lord love you. Why should she die of influenza, when she come through diptheria right enough the year before. Fairly blue with it she was. They all thought she was dead. But my father, he kept ladling gin down her throat. Then she come to so sudden she bit the bowl right off the spoon.

Mrs. Eynsford-Hill: Dear Me!

Eliza Doolittle: Now what call would a woman with that strength in her have to die of influenza? And what become of her new straw hat that should have come to me? [pause]

Eliza Doolittle: Somebody pinched it. And what I say is: them 'as pinched it, done her in. Lord Boxington: Done her in? Done her in did you say?

Lady Boxington: Whatever does it mean?

Mrs. Higgins: Its the new slang meaning someone has killed her.

Mrs. Eynsford-Hill: Surely you don't think someone killed her?

Eliza Doolittle: Do I not? Them she lived with would have killed her for a hatpin, let alone a hat.

Mrs. Eynsford-Hill: But it can't have been right for your father to be pouring spirits down her throat like that, it could have killed her.

Eliza Doolittle: Not her, gin was mother's milk to her. Besides he poured so much down his own throat, he knew the good of it. Lord Boxington: Do you mean he drank?

Eliza Doolittle: Drank? My word something chronic.

[responding to freddy's laughter]

Eliza Doolittle: Here! What are you sniggering at?

Freddy Eynsford-Hill: The new small talk, you do it so awfully well.

Eliza Doolittle: Well if I was doing it proper, what was you sniggering at? Have I said anything I oughtn't?

Mrs. Higgins: No my dear.

Eliza Doolittle: Well, thats a mercy anyhow...