Beware the breakfast mugger

It’s time to turn the tables on pestering strangers, says Paul Carter. From now on, they’ll have to pay to hear his life story

Why won’t people leave me alone?

Apologies for the slightly anti-social introduction to this month’s musings, but you’ll perhaps be unsurprised to learn that I’ve been pestered again.

This latest in a long-line of irritating social interactions came while I was living it up in a hotel in Manchester (if you can exactly call a Travel Inn “living it up”), with the purpose of watching four days of top-class sport, all in the line of Disability Now-related duty. Hard work, journalism.

I was queuing for breakfast, to be precise. It was one of those buffet-style breakfasts, where the food sits in those big metal tins under a 40-watt bulb, pleading for clemency.

“Did you have an accident?” asked the suited and booted middle-aged man behind me.

“No, I think it’s the eggs,” I replied.

He looked a bit puzzled, which served him right, I thought.

I stood there for a second or two basking in the glow of smugness from my rather sharp wit, which to be honest is something that happens a lot.

Irritatingly, complete strangers asking randomly personal questions happens a lot, too, although I have to say, not usually at 7am on a Saturday morning in the breakfast queue at a Travel Inn.

Very little usually happens to me at 7am on a Saturday morning. Very little at all.

Anyhow, before I had the chance to concoct another witty reposte for my own amusement, he’d already offered to help me with my beans, which in this instance was not a euphemism.

Being so early in the morning, I wanted to get the usual charade of politely revealing my life history over and done with quickly, so I could sit down and shovel my plate of carbohydrates into my already burgeoning face, and set about hardening my arteries for the day before going to watch some elite athletics.

No, the irony was not lost on me.

So we went through the usual polite question and answer session.

At this point, I always have to resist concocting some elaborate story involving a great white shark or how I lost my arms single-handedly clearing Ebola-filled landmines from an orphanage on a leper colony.*

After he’d buggered off to eat his own breakfast (thankfully he didn’t sit with me; I’m not that tolerant), it left me thinking about the tactics used by these people.

The clever ones, like this particular breakfast mugger, usually only ask questions once they’ve offered to help in some way, like it’s some sort of perverse icebreaker.

I’m thinking I could turn it into some kind of little sideline. After all, with the current economic climate (sorry, but I refuse to use the term “credit crunch”; it’s on a par with “road rage” and “carbon footprint”), I could use some extra beer money.

Personal question? Five quid. Personal measurement? 20 quid. Hell, for 50 quid I’ll show you. I’ll be a millionaire by Christmas. Ta Ta.

*I didn’t, in case you were wondering. If you want to know how, it’ll cost you. Cheques to the usual address.