Muak! Muak!

I'm not particularly good with people. I'm not particularly outgoing. I'm terrible at remembering faces (well whole bodies come to that) and I can forget names within a couple of sentences of being introduced. The opening phrases of a greeting are usually banal, sometimes surreal and occasionally bizarre. Greetings take me by surprise. It would probably be better if I stayed at home with a good book.

The other day some people that I do recognise on the streets, members of a Spanish family, had one of the older members die. I didn't know what the form was so I didn't do anything. I wondered about going to the tanatorio, I wondered about the mass but a mix of embarrassment, fear of speaking Spanish and my general diffidence meant that I did nothing. As ill luck would have it I bumped into one of the family a few days later. She greeted me, we did the two cheeks kissing, I failed to understand what she'd said to me, I failed to pass on my condolences and as she walked away I felt completely inadequate and kicked myself for not being up to the situation.

In my grey formative years those foppish French went in for that kissing each other thing. We steadfast Britons on the other hand maintained the creases in our trousers and shook hands. I know - we were all repressed. I am aware that nowadays even handshakes require some sort of hand twisting routine that I have never quite mastered. My dad taught me the basics of 1950s handshaking and Mr. Plant, the local greengrocer, had strong views on my posture, on the firmness of grip and the length of time of hand holding between men which he was happy to share. It didn't dawn on me, for years, that Mr Plant the greengrocer sounds like a made up, Happy Families, name. Nowadays preferring a politician style firm handshake is tantamount to admitting a sordid past and a pressing need to make an appointment with an analyst. My unease at performing a mutual back massage on greeting people whose name I should know and the need to be intimate with everyone down to the postie signals me out as an emotional casualty.

In fact I don't really care if someone I hardly know wants to slap me on the back or give me a bear hug. I probably file it in the hypocritical tosh section of my mental filing system but my facial expression will be tolerant or even approving. I squirm more when people substitute "Love you", for goodbye at the end of a phone call. Nothing like overuse to devalue something. That said I don't care for hugging or being hugged as a greeting or farewell but the reason is practical rather than my lack of sensitivity. I have no idea how I am supposed to do it. As vague acquaintances move into my personal space in their attempt to hug, kiss or exchange bodily fluids with me I usually end up treading on their toes (or having my toes trodden on) bumping foreheads or elbowing them in the kidneys. I've also broken several pairs of the reading specs because they are habitually hanging from a cord around my neck. I think the problem is that, even now, we Britons lack a proper set of instructions. 

Now the French know how to do it and so do the Spanish. Spaniards grew up with a routine probably reinforced by Señor Planta. Men here generally do the hand on the shoulder and handshake goodbye but it's common to see men, close family, saying goodbye with the double cheek kissing thing. Men to women and women to men for greetings and farewells is usually cheek grazing. First go left, touch cheeks then go right and touch cheeks. More contact for more familiarity. Easy as pie. Even I can do it. There's a routine, an understood set of actions. It's not at all false or over emotional it's simply shaking hands with the face. I do it as naturally as I do anything that requires any level of social interaction and I'm sure Mr Plant would be fine with it too.