The Ambush of Friendly Neighbours

Mary (my wife) is what you’d call a people person, if you liked people.
Which I don’t.
Not in the open. Not when I’ve only just put my shorts on.

She has the sort of warmth that makes strangers confess their secrets in Tesco. I once watched a builder tell her about his divorce while still holding a bag of compost. She just has that face. Open. Kind. Soft target for anecdote-lobbing passers-by.

We were out walking. This is something we do to stay fit and chat in scenic locations. The weather was passable. The socks were not. We were halfway to the bit with the tree that looks like it’s giving up, when I saw them.

Dog Walkers. Known Ones. Two of them. Approaching at chat-range.

“Quick,” I hissed, doing the side-step of social evasion, “go this way. We can just wave. No eye contact. No backstory updates.”

Mary looked at me as if I’d suggested burning down the WI. The side-eye was so sharp it gave a pigeon vertigo.

She sailed on, arms open, voice already rising:
“HELLOOO! How lovely to see you!”
The dogs barked in greeting. One of them tried to climb me. I smiled like someone passing a kidney stone at a street party.

For ten minutes we stood. Ten long minutes during which I learned about hip replacements, grandchildren, dog asthma, and the whereabouts of that woman who had the bunion.

When it was over, we walked on.

Mary was radiant.
I was drained of blood and goodwill, like a socially awkward Capri-Sun.

Still. She is wonderful.
Even if she sees every walk as an emotional census with footpaths.