Friends have started calling me the Bolter.
It suggests impulsiveness, drama, even romance. None of this applies. I am simply too polite.
When I’ve had enough, I don’t explain myself. I make a French exit — with none of the grace the words imply.
Trapped in the deadliest of conversations for 40 minutes, I nod, smile and acquiesce because I have not yet found an acceptable exit.
Some people inherit athletic ability. I inherited manners. I have perfected cocktail chit-chat to a fine art, spreading largesse and bonhomie among people I don’t know and will probably never see again, regardless of feeling murderous inside. The flaw is assuming other people know the rules. They don’t. And so it escalates at a pace I am unable to stop.
A more direct person would simply apologise and leave. I admire them. They are a different species. I participate and then, when it all becomes unbearable, I bolt. I can feel it building. The smile becomes fixed. My jaw locks. My heart begins to thump. My throat is dry.
Train journeys are a perfect study in politeness and rudeness. You enter the carriage with optimism intact. There is one free seat. But the adjacent seat is occupied by a coat, a hessian bag from Waterstones and the silent assumption that public seating is semi-private property. To reach the window seat, you would have to clamber over those items, losing all sense of dignity.
So you wait. You glare at the likely culprits and consider saying, ‘Could someone move their things, please?’
But you don’t. You stand in silence. No one offers to help. You shuffle from one foot to the other. Still, no one says anything. The feeling is that if you want that seat, you must work for it.
In the end, you perch on the edge of a seat, avoiding their belongings. Nobody says anything. They are either too polite or simply not interested.
I once went on a date with a man who suggested dinner but had not actually booked anywhere. Somehow, I ended up as the designated driver while he sat smugly beside me, considering what he would have to drink.
I drove from restaurant to restaurant while he flicked through his phone for solutions. By the third fully booked restaurant, I’d run out of patience.
He went inside. I drove away. It was easier to disappear than explain his shortcomings to him. I don’t like upsetting people unnecessarily.
He later texted to say my behaviour was appalling.
I replied, ‘I don’t care.’
So I became the Bolter.
When my blood quietly boils at an irritating person, I hand my drink to someone and announce a trip to the ladies. A very polite form of escape – unless I’m followed.
I wait it out. I wash my hands several times and dry them with care. I scroll on my phone. I inspect the linen cupboard. I practise standing on one leg for a minute and the other for three. Still the conversation outside continues. No chance of escape yet.
Once, after waiting a reasonable amount of time and with no let-up from outside, I noticed a window. I climbed through it. A French exit, admittedly, though not one they teach in Paris. I left him in the bar, still wittering away.
You step back into the outside air, slightly stunned at a narrow escape from what others might consider your civic duty. And you make a private vow, as all bolters do.
Next time, get a table nearer the door.
