A week of small talk

DAY 1 

I wake up in a fog of depression. It’s officially been one year. I’ve been unemployed, hustling for a job and stuck within the 4 walls of a London flatshare for 1 year. No work meetings, no chit chat about the upcoming weekend, and no one-to-one with a manager kicking off with a long diversion on the English weather. I am starved of human interaction. 

I go to a local cafe to cheer up. 

‘Are you an artist?’ the waitress asks as I take out my scribbled papers. She is in her early 20s with a broad smile revealing a metal retainer. 

We talk about my essays, and doing comedy, and how she used to write silly poems in school. 

When she leaves me to return to my notebook, I feel oddly bucked up, livelier, less comatose. An odd strain of newfound hope stings my cheeks. For a few moments, confusion sets in. Was this all due to a single chat? 

Day 2 

Yes, apparently it is so. According to science, micro human interactions with people on the train or your local cafe or bakery release a natural anti depressant which boosts your mental health and increases your immune system. Who would’ve known?

DAY 3

Chats, chats, chats. 

I’m looking for chats.

The tattooed Sainsburys assistant seems friendly enough.

Why do they make them all wear headsets? 

He has trimmed short hair, several ear piercings and tattoos all the way up his neck. Presumably an ex convict. 

He laughs to himself whilst scanning my 40p reduced Oatly milk. 

I wonder if he’s crazy. Never mind. I need a chat. 

‘Lots of rain today! The weather keep changing, hard to keep track really.’, I say. 

He ignores me then, ‘Mate that is a long shift. I wouldn’t want to be you.’, he says whilst taking my Nectar card absentmindedly. 

I’m confused at first then it settles. He’s talking to someone on his headset. What an outrage! 

I let out a long sigh. No chat, no endorphins and then there’s the worst of it all. I didn’t even need Oatmilk. 

I already have a full carton and there’s actually no space in the door of the fridge. 

I walk home unsatisfied, frowning and of course, wet. 

DAY 4

I try to have an early, productive start to my day and in order to do this, I skip breakfast. As a child, I used to get fainthearted and dizzy when skipping breakfast but I’m a mature, strong adult now. 

On the way to the cafe, I visit the local vintage shop. Everything is light years ahead of my price range, my price range being £0, but I’m looking for a chat.

I strike up a conversation with the shop lady pretending I want to buy something. 

‘Do you have anything blue?’ I ask. 

She shows me everything ‘blue’, and I ignore all her suggestions and start talking about my life. 

‘It’s hard enough being unemployed but try being unemployed with an eye condition that means you have to use a screen reader to apply for jobs. You know what I mean?’ 

She is beach blonde and rolled into fake tan and owns a vintage shop and doesn’t know what I mean. 

‘Sounds like a lot. Have you tried meditating?’

She hands me a flyer for some free meditation that occurs twice a month down the street. Then she talks about her weekly acupuncture session with a local Chinese lady, and have I tried acupuncture?

Suddenly, and out of the blue, I start feeling dizzy, and I have to lie down on her vintage sofa in the middle of the room. 

She waves the meditation flyer in my face for a few minutes. 

‘You just need some fresh air.’, she says soothingly, and I explain about running out of time for breakfast and having a good, productive morning. 

When I turn the door handle to leave, the metal knick knack hanging above the door goes off, and I can hear her shouting something. Something about breakfast. 

‘Sorry, what was that?’ I ask. 

‘You should try Weetabix. All you have to do is pour milk over it!’ she shouts.

DAY 5

I’m back in the local cafe, and I’m ecstatic. This is by far the best possible thing that could’ve happened all day. 

A dog is sitting next to me. One of these white fluffy things that looks and feels like a bold statement pillow. 

After a brief petting session, she jumps up on the couch and sits next to me. 

‘I’ve never seen her do that before. She must like you.’, the bald owner says before burying his face in his £6 berry berrylicious smoothie.

Her name is Jewel. 

Never has there been a more glorious manifestation of need in a dog. Huge, black, blinking eyes. You can’t explain but they penetrate that something inside you that you didn’t know was there. A soul perhaps? 

I stroke her and stroke her and when I withdraw my hand, she seeks it out, staring at me, nudging me for another stroke. 

Endorphins, endorphins, endorphins.  At last. 

You can’t believe how easy it is to feel this good.

The owner is attempting a conversation with you. 

‘Are you a writer?’ he asks, looking at your blue printed out paper. 

‘Oh yes, sort of.’ 

You dismiss him, bringing every thread back to the dog. 

‘Gosh, she’s adorable, isn’t she?’ 

‘Yeah, she is quite the hit with the ladies.’, he says in ap pensive sort of way. 

You stroke her back, her sides, the top of her head, her neck, her cheeks, her ears. 

You hold her left ear and weigh it in your hands. A dog’s ear! 

It’s like a fabric sample with a nervous system attached to it. 

Then you can’t help yourself. You kiss the top of her glorious little head. It’s wet. Oh dear. It’s wet! 

Dirty puddle water? Dirty pond water? 

The excrement stained bottom of another dog?

Who cares? 

You feel happy, you actually feel happy. 

‘Who needs a chat now! Who needs a chat now ey?’, you say to the dog with your lips full of dog feces. 

Endorphins are pumping out to your bloodstream from every corner as if there’s no tomorrow. 

You’ve needed this for months, and now you have it. Who knew? 

A dog was the answer all along. 

A blooming dog.