To the Manner Born: A Most Proper Guide to Modern Civility - Hardcover

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Chapter 1

Manners in Public

Where to begin?: “good morning,” “thank you,” pushing, and shoving—among

other things.

Dreadful, dreadful—let’s rave on like Archie Bunker, such fun! It’s frightful out on the streets. Surely a new Ice Age of bad manners is coming? There are the litterbugs, the pushers and shovers, the bellowers, the swearers—and that’s just a start.

What about this dreadful episode? The other day, Matt Lawson, forty- three, assistant financial director of a company that publishes trade magazines (Dumper Truck Today is a big seller), held the door open for a nice, middle-aged, vaguely spinsterish woman as she was coming out of a department store in Peterborough, a delightful dormitory town for London, and, would you believe it, she stalked straight through the door as if there was nobody there?

Matt says this happens all the time, not just in Peterborough but also in London, where he works. “It would be nice if they said thank you,” he says, “but what can you do? That’s how people are.”

In the genteel cathedral city of Worcester, a similar thing happened. Some ladies failed to thank someone who had waited for them to come up a narrow stairs. In Manchester and London, standing in line for the bus has been abandoned in favor of a dog-eat-dog approach.

Mrs. Gibbs, eighty-five, lives in Winchester; her husband, a solicitor, long dead. “I don’t want to seem old-fashioned,” she begins, “but I’m sorry to say, people are in such a hurry. All these mothers with one child in a stroller, several more rampaging about. They’ve got no time to take any notice of anybody. People hold doors open for me, that kind of thing. They can see I’m an old woman. But the other day I thanked someone and he grunted in this peculiar way as if to say, ‘That’s enough of that. I’ve done you a favor, now clear off!’ Not terribly charming.”

And what about this? One of those van-type vehicles in which celebrities are conveyed was once seen parked outside a tailor’s in Spitalfields, a very desirable newly yuppified district of London. A rumor, unconfirmed to this day, went round that David Beckham was being fitted for a suit. The van was assumed to be unoccupied except by the driver, but imagine the excitement when the back door slid open and a jeweled hand, clutching a Coke can and associated sandwich wrappings, emerged into view, sank graciously toward the gutter, and there deposited the can. Could this have been the hand of Posh, glamorously littering the streets?

What shall we do with them? Horsewhipping? Boot camp? National Service?

Well, it may not be the end of the world, but let’s admit it, we’ve all got something, some discourtesy that occurs in public, which we find absolutely infuriating.

It’s no good resigning yourself, like Matt, or apologizing, like Mrs. Gibbs. You’ve got to do something, especially if you’re one of the millions who complain about antisocial behavior. You can’t expect the police to attend every time someone drops some litter or raises their voice.

The good old British “keep your head down and don’t make a fuss” approach has had its day. Not that it ever really was that. Nothing may have been said, but the accompanying withering looks were full strength and top-notch in quality. Actors would have given anything to achieve such silent power. But nobody today is going to take any notice of a look, however withering.

•If you hold a door open for someone or wait to let them pass and they don’t thank you, say loudly, “Thank you so much.” In extreme cases, you can pursue them and say, “I’m so sorry. Did you forget to thank?” Don’t be put off by an abusive response. If enough people start doing this, the message will get through.

•If you’re the person not thanking, you probably don’t mean any harm. You’re just not awake.

•Always say “Good morning,” “Hello,” or “Hi” to shop assistants, receptionists, and so forth. The French do this without thinking about it. In some places, you’ll be met with astonishment or bewilderment. Don’t be discouraged. It’s the right thing to do.

•If there’s no line for the bus, just a mosh pit, it would be nice to think that enough people would band together to do something about it. But they probably won’t. Nevertheless, there are other ways of making a fuss. Write to the local paper, complain to the city council, the bus company. Don’t listen to people who sneer at the British and their eternal lines, or queues. Queues are fair and just. They’re worth fighting for.

•In a crowd, few follow the example of the late Bubbles Rothermere, who would beat the back of anyone in the way with her tiny fists. But many have a policy of massively increasing speed and whacking everybody else out of the way. This isn’t very nice but is less easy to resist. They’ve usually disappeared by the time you realize what has happened. Protest charmingly—“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize I was in the way”—if you get the chance. Or just don’t get out of the way. Stand your ground and see what happens.

•If you see someone dropping litter, pick it up and hand it back to them. “I think you dropped this.” It sometimes works. If they turn nasty, say, “It’s quite all right. I’ll throw it away for you.” Then make a run for it.

Children

In public places there are two sorts: ones who are unaccompanied, ones who aren’t. Neither are quite as they should be. “I was in the newsagents only last week,” says Mrs. Gibbs. “Two little boys, both under ten, rushed in making an awful noise, barged in front of me, and shouted at the shopkeeper, ‘Give us some chewing gum.’ I wasn’t going to stand there doing nothing, I can tell you. I said, ‘Stop that racket, wait in the queue, if you wouldn’t mind, and when it’s your turn you might try “please” and “thank you.” ’ The shopkeeper and the one other customer in the shop were horrified. ‘You ought to watch out,’ they said, ‘they might have had a gun.’ I couldn’t believe it. What nonsense! Three adults in the shop and two little boys, and the only person who wasn’t afraid of them was an old woman of eighty-five!”

At the airport, setting out with a party of ten for a villa holiday in Majorca, Zoe Miller, twenty-five, just starting out in PR and a graduate of the University of Kent (one of those subjects that are hard to explain), was fed up with “all these parents who seemed to think the departure lounge was just a big playpen for their children. One of the fathers was making the most noise, pretending to be a roller coaster or something.” Zoe is rather against children in general, which Mrs. Gibbs isn’t. But perhaps Zoe has a point. It probably wasn’t just thoughtlessness, either. Many parents now like to make a conspicuous parade of their parenting, and what better opportunity than the departure lounge?

Did she do anything about it? She is shocked. “Oh, no. That wouldn’t be...