Susan Morrison: Chairwoman of the bored’s here

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In one of those surveys that you suspect are put together by office workers when they’ve got nowt to do, party political broadcasts have topped the poll for Most Boring Thing.

That surprises me, because I didn’t think anyone actually watched enough of a PPB to get bored. As a family, it’s sometimes the most exercise we have of an evening as we scramble for the remote whenever one starts.

The appearance of hanging about the doctor’s waiting room on the list was a bit of a surprise. My GP’s surgery is like live theatre without the Creative Scotland grant. Sometimes the show is so good I resent my name being called.

There have been occasions when I have been driven to hide behind the 2010 Autumn season Vogue just to find out where that young man’s rash was, and why his girlfriend didn’t believe his otherwise plausible explanation of a virulent reaction triggered by a change in the seat covers of Lothian buses.

Other entries for Most Boring Thing of the 21st Century included “waiting in for deliveries”. Granted, that is a pain in the place where the rash was, but my solution to this 
problem is always the same, and surefire.

As soon as the deadline has passed, pop upstairs and take your pick of either slathering on a facepack or leaping into the shower.

The doorbell will ring in no time at all, certainly quicker than you can either remove a facepack or get out of the shower.

I’ll also grant you that being put on hold is a bit of a pain. Just what Antonio Lucio Vivaldi did to the human race to condemn his Four Seasons to be eternally blasted into the ears of people waiting to query their gas bill – and good luck with that – is anyone’s guess.

According to the survey, people seem to think that they get more boring as they get older. This is just nuts. Yes, you do get boring, but only to your own family. I know this, because mine have told me so, and in no uncertain terms.

This bothers me not one whit, since my husband is from Yorkshire, and let’s get honest here, that’s a whole heap of county that prides itself on being able to out-bore the rest of the world.

What’s so bad about being mildly bored anyway? When did we think the whole world was just one big glitter ball waiting to entertain us? How about we try making our own entertainment?

Charlie one of the good guys

NEVER met Charles Kennedy, but I know that if I had spotted him in a room, say at one of those policy launch things with terrible red wine and levels of boredom so stratospheric you suspect time has actually stopped, he’s one politician I’d have been happy to chat to.

My usual instinct when politicians make eye contact with a peasant like me is to dive under the tablecloth. Odd, I know, and even stranger if I’m there in my part-time role as one of the waiting staff.

Once again we’ve lost a good guy. Charlie was never boring.

That’s my queue for a friendly chat

A FEW days ago I was in a queue, behind a tiny little old lady (she was smaller than me. That makes her tiny), two things which feature as “boring”.

Something went wrong with the technology. Increasingly senior members of management scuttled into the daylight like startled vampires.

The computer failed to respond to the exponentially expensive expertise, so the queue remained static. The sound of huffy sighs and shuffling feet filled the air. The tiny old lady and I got talking and she told me about her journey home from London at the end of the war, on the train, with everyone singing and laughing and passing unfiltered fags about.

She said it was the first time she tasted whisky from a hip flask, which belonged to a Very Grand Officer Type.

I could have chatted to her all day. Sometimes that’s the gift of mild boredom. It opens the door to speak to other people.

Just dial down the frustration

Years ago, I worked for A Large Telecommunications Company, in the very earliest form of call centre. It was during the 80s and, in traditional ramshackled British manner, we didn’t have headsets or autodiallers or any of that high-falutin’ stuff. We had beige telephones and paper lists we worked through. We dialled the numbers ourselves.

It got mind-numbingly boring waiting for people to answer the phone, so we came up with a game. There were only six of us in this little group. We’d all start dialling at the same time, then one of us would shout “three films with the word Rain in the title” or “six pop songs with types of car in the title”. Next time you’re on hold, give it a go.