Fight or flight
One of my recurring nightmares is getting into a fight and suddenly realising my punches have the stopping power of wet tissue paper. This is odd, since this is far my thoughts during normal waking hours. I don't get into many fights. I'm British. My response to a confrontational situation is to become coldly polite, make some sharp (but not too sharp) comments, and then spend the next two days coming up with all the things I should have said but can't because it is now way, way too late.
Perhaps it's because I don't get into fights. We are primal beings, most of our instincts are designed to provide for a life that we stopped living many thousands of years ago. Fight or flight may protect you when confronted by a sabre toothed tiger, but it's not very useful when your boss shouts at you about a missing RSJ-32 report. Evolution is, perhaps, the most ur-example of a clutter nutter: it never gets rid of anything unless it's actively harmful, just in case it needs it again in a few centuries time. I can imagine evolution being confronted with Carol Smiley on early morning tv, trying to decide whether it should bin the appendix or recycle it.
When I first became a father, I found my primal instincts kicking in suddenly and with no warning. I would be walking around the park with my baby carried proudly on my chest in a sling, and I would feel like a terrified Terminator: every threat, every potential hazard, loomed large in my vision like a head up display, with electronic circles around the danger and scrolling read outs telling how like my child was to come to harm. I was permanently in fight or flight mode. A dog being walked in the park suddenly took on the aspect of a rabid wolf, a harmless jogger a barbarian invader. Bees became the size of buses, and innocent inquiries into the health of the wee one were met with guarded hostility and a quick assessment as to whether I could best the inquisitive old pensioner in a fist fight, or whether it was time to take to my heels.
The fact that everyone wants to ask about the baby does not help. As a man barely out of my twenties, living in central London, I was not used to strangers talking to me. Londoners, as a rule, ignore each other, if only to cope with the sheer pressure of living with that number of people in close proximity – many of whom seem to be openly hostile to you, or at least taciturn and actively ignoring your presence. The only way to deal with such people is to be unwilling to talk to them and actively ignore their presence. Give them a taste of their own medicine and, once they realise what it feels like, we'll soon put a stop to such antisocial behaviour.
Once you have a child, however, you feel like you've been transitioned into a secret community. People stop to have conversations. You get smiles and knowing, been there looks. The owner of the fish and chip shop across the road, a man I had been nodding to for years as I silently bought my dinner but never speaking to suddenly started beaming as I walked into the shop, telling me jokes and giving me extra because I was going to need 'all the energy I could get'.
I suspect we're back to ancient instincts again. A man on his own is a threat, a potential danger. When we were all living in the same village, a stranger could only be there as part of an oncoming army. If you don't know them, then they're not from round here, and if they're not from round here then why are they here? It's sound logic, and utterly paralysing when no-one is from round here and we are facing potential invaders every day. It's the same reason we respond positively to regional accents. No one infiltrating our society would bother to perfect a Liverpudlian accent, or Geordie. Villains all speak in clipped received pronunciation. James Bond has never been effectively threatened by a Brummy.
All of which means that, once you have a child strapped to you chest, or in a push chair, or trailing along beside you asking for sweets, a switch flips in everyone's mind saying 'he must be alright'. It's as if the psyche say, 'well, I don't recognise him but he's either from round here, or his raiding party is very advanced for its age.'
So, it turns out, becoming part of a community is very simple. Get a kid. It's the power of our animal instincts at work, trying to work out who's safe and who represents danger. Not that I'd advise going out and getting a kid, just for the purpose of fitting in. The paperwork alone is prohibitive. But next time you're out and about and you wish more people were smiling at you, think about animal behaviour, and tribal instincts, and think about ways to reduce your appearance as a threat. Ways such as smiling, allowing people in front of you in a queue, moving openly and non-threateningly, or even just saying a cheery good morning.
You could even adopt a regional accent. That's always bound to go down well.
Perhaps it's because I don't get into fights. We are primal beings, most of our instincts are designed to provide for a life that we stopped living many thousands of years ago. Fight or flight may protect you when confronted by a sabre toothed tiger, but it's not very useful when your boss shouts at you about a missing RSJ-32 report. Evolution is, perhaps, the most ur-example of a clutter nutter: it never gets rid of anything unless it's actively harmful, just in case it needs it again in a few centuries time. I can imagine evolution being confronted with Carol Smiley on early morning tv, trying to decide whether it should bin the appendix or recycle it.
When I first became a father, I found my primal instincts kicking in suddenly and with no warning. I would be walking around the park with my baby carried proudly on my chest in a sling, and I would feel like a terrified Terminator: every threat, every potential hazard, loomed large in my vision like a head up display, with electronic circles around the danger and scrolling read outs telling how like my child was to come to harm. I was permanently in fight or flight mode. A dog being walked in the park suddenly took on the aspect of a rabid wolf, a harmless jogger a barbarian invader. Bees became the size of buses, and innocent inquiries into the health of the wee one were met with guarded hostility and a quick assessment as to whether I could best the inquisitive old pensioner in a fist fight, or whether it was time to take to my heels.
The fact that everyone wants to ask about the baby does not help. As a man barely out of my twenties, living in central London, I was not used to strangers talking to me. Londoners, as a rule, ignore each other, if only to cope with the sheer pressure of living with that number of people in close proximity – many of whom seem to be openly hostile to you, or at least taciturn and actively ignoring your presence. The only way to deal with such people is to be unwilling to talk to them and actively ignore their presence. Give them a taste of their own medicine and, once they realise what it feels like, we'll soon put a stop to such antisocial behaviour.
Once you have a child, however, you feel like you've been transitioned into a secret community. People stop to have conversations. You get smiles and knowing, been there looks. The owner of the fish and chip shop across the road, a man I had been nodding to for years as I silently bought my dinner but never speaking to suddenly started beaming as I walked into the shop, telling me jokes and giving me extra because I was going to need 'all the energy I could get'.
I suspect we're back to ancient instincts again. A man on his own is a threat, a potential danger. When we were all living in the same village, a stranger could only be there as part of an oncoming army. If you don't know them, then they're not from round here, and if they're not from round here then why are they here? It's sound logic, and utterly paralysing when no-one is from round here and we are facing potential invaders every day. It's the same reason we respond positively to regional accents. No one infiltrating our society would bother to perfect a Liverpudlian accent, or Geordie. Villains all speak in clipped received pronunciation. James Bond has never been effectively threatened by a Brummy.
All of which means that, once you have a child strapped to you chest, or in a push chair, or trailing along beside you asking for sweets, a switch flips in everyone's mind saying 'he must be alright'. It's as if the psyche say, 'well, I don't recognise him but he's either from round here, or his raiding party is very advanced for its age.'
So, it turns out, becoming part of a community is very simple. Get a kid. It's the power of our animal instincts at work, trying to work out who's safe and who represents danger. Not that I'd advise going out and getting a kid, just for the purpose of fitting in. The paperwork alone is prohibitive. But next time you're out and about and you wish more people were smiling at you, think about animal behaviour, and tribal instincts, and think about ways to reduce your appearance as a threat. Ways such as smiling, allowing people in front of you in a queue, moving openly and non-threateningly, or even just saying a cheery good morning.
You could even adopt a regional accent. That's always bound to go down well.
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