Small Talk

I love pick-up and drop-off. When you work on your own at home, the simple solace of some human connection is exciting. I’m also very keen to get the gossip from the day from my kids. 

We jiggle our bums as we run eagerly to the car. 

I ask for the gossip. 

“I can’t remember.” It’s a fun game of amnesia until it’s bedtime. 

It’s the small talk with the parents just before the kids come out that I can’t handle. I’m ill-equipped. I’m so disarmed for the small-talk war that I’ve said good morning to the same mother more than 50 times - at pick-up. It also doesn’t help that I can only partly hear. 

Small talk is horrible, so I’m optimising it. 

The playground sand starts to infiltrate my Birkenstocks. A poor summer choice. I can feel them start to smell. The heat is unbearable. My daughter motions toward the swings; I hate the swings. “Dad, can you push me?” I normally say no. 

It’s more commitment than I’m willing to give. I’ve already made the effort away from my couch, the TV and The Pitt to get there. 

She is normally very good at getting other parents to push her; it’s one of her more endearing traits. I walk over with a non-threatening frown and lift my hand. I mouth to the parent. “She okay?” They smile, thinly veiling their disdain. I walk away. I can get away with this if I keep shifting playgrounds. I’m a see-saw conman.

My daughter can’t conjure up a human out of nowhere; I’m checkmated, and I start to push the swing. 

Out of nowhere, another parent and child enter the sand like it’s Royal Rumble. Timing is excellent. Every playground in Australia has sand in it. I’d rather my kids toughen up by falling to their deaths on asphalt than the feeling of sand beneath my feet. Kids bring more sand home in their shoes than an Arabian caravan. 

They’ll worry about a kid falling off the monkey bars but have a death net as a ladder up to the platform for the slide. 

The swings aren’t quite as intimate as aeroplane seats, but they might as well be. 

The mom sidles into my personal space. Talking to her child, pretending that I don’t exist. I frown, in a very non-threatening way. 

“How’s this heat?” 

“I know.” 

“School holidays?” 

“I know.” 

The swings and our conversation creak in desperate need of some lubrication. I cough. She blinks. 

“Has anyone in your family died of cancer?” 

She stops. Her kid flies off the swing. 

Let’s call it large talk. 

Slipping past the initial awkwardness, the tennis of weather and parent life, straight into compatibility through deep discussion. No surface-level shit.  

When a new friend pops their head in to introduce themselves, I go straight in.

“Do you think they should cull white sharks in Western Australia?”

Dinner parties are the perfect time to talk about the conflict in the Middle East. 

Here's what we didn't budget for when we emigrated: friends. We budgeted for the container, the rent, the 54 documents. Nobody puts "a person you can call at 11pm" on the immi checklist.

I struggle to engage with people. It’s strange, and I don’t understand why. On the surface, I look comfortable. Underneath, it's a struggle. I overthink, and I’m uncomfortable. I’m a walking contradiction, mostly truth and partly fiction. If asked in an interview what my strength is, I will say relationships. That’s only sometimes true.

I don’t dislike people; I dislike the artificial process required to get comfortable with them.

I make my kids greet adults, but I hate it.

My favourite thing in the world is being in the company of people you are completely comfortable with. Mates you can relax with. There is nothing better. But it’s rare. Not like white sharks on the coast of Western Australia. 

You only get there with trust. 

Trust born from depth. 

Depth from time.