I’d Rather Drink Sea Water From Peel Beach Than Engage In Office Chit Chat

If you ever see me in a workplace kitchen or break room, please don’t speak to me. I’m begging you.

Though I may appear friendly and ‘up for a chinwag’, I would rather drink sea water from Peel Beach than engage in small talk with you. Workplace small talk is the bane of my existence. The Albatross around my neck. It gives me the same feeling I get when I watch Pitch Perfect 2; disappointed and desperate for it to end. And I would bet my ‘I hate small talk in the workplace’ hat I’m not the only one who feels this way.

I don’t wish anything bad on my colleagues (except you, John). On the contrary, I hope they’re living nothing but happy, fulfilling lives. I just don’t care to hear about it. It’s like when a friend wants to show me pictures of their baby. All I need to know is that the child is still alive and well, I don’t need further evidence. It’s because small talk is so scalp-achingly boring. I don’t mind a cheery hello followed by mutual silence, but if you’re going to talk to me, the only thing I’m going to be interested in is if you’ve got tea to spill. If you need to get off your chest that you’re having an affair with your ex’s grandma, I’m here for it. Telling me you went to B&Q at the weekend to buy a skirting board cover is not in the same league. I feel like my brain is performing a do-it-yourself lobotomy just to get out of listening.

From not being born with a silver spoon in my mouth along with my inability to gamble successfully, I have, unfortunately, had to work for a living. Every time I’m in the office kitchen, making a cup of tea and hear footsteps making their way towards me, I am filled with dread. Low and behold, in walks Gerard, the most boring human being to ever walk the Gem of God’s Earth. You’d get more interesting chat out of a piece of chalk.

Gerard is type 1 of the small talkers. Chats rarely dip deeper than them telling you how they spent Saturday choosing a new scouring sponge. He means well. Gerard is someone simply making conversation to be polite and fill the void-like silence while each of us waits for the kettle to boil. But I’m my own worst enemy. Because I know he means well, I feel bad and indulge it. Inwardly, I’m wondering how many more minutes of my life this conversation that I couldn’t care less about is going to take. Outwardly, I’m saying things like; ‘Ooh yes, you have to get new scouring sponges regularly. We’re awful for changing ours.’ Next thing I know, I’ve accepted an invite to join him at a cleaning product convention in Maine, USA on Thursday 4, June 2025 along with his Eucalyptus plant Winifred, which he takes with him everywhere. I eventually leave the break room with a cold cup of tea and a new hatred of myself.

The other type of small talker is the one that holds you small talk hostage. Usually, they live alone with nothing but their pet turtle to keep them company. Like Lenny, who’s on his fourth turtle now because they keep dying in horrendous ways like getting their head stuck in a fast-moving desk fan. Probably to get out of having to listen to Lenny talk any more about his paperweight collection.

The Lennys will come in, spot you, and not experience the same drop in the stomach I get when I realise I’ve been duped by a quiet tea stirrer into thinking the room was empty. When Lennys see you, they see an audience. They’ll ask you the basic questions of what you did at the weekend, but only to use as a springboard to cut you off and tell you what they did. They’ll actively disrupt your lunch. Sat reading a book with headphones in? They’ll still speak AT you until you stop. If you carry on reading, pretending you haven’t heard them – a technique I often adopt – they will wave in your face to get your attention. If this still doesn’t work, they’ll set your book on fire and pull out your elderly relative while holding a gun to their head to get your attention so they can regale you with tales of how they organised their sock drawer in a perpendicular formation. Don’t know what that means? DON’T WORRY. LENNY WILL TELL YOU.

Now, how to get out of these tooth-pullingly painful conversations:

1: Pretend you’re deaf.

2: When someone asks how you are, be overly open. Tell them about your recent smear test and that you went because you’ve been itching a lot down there, fingers crossed it’s not Thrush AGAIN. The more uncomfortable they are, the faster they’ll leave you alone.

3: Kill them with a soup spoon.

All these tried methods have been proven to work 23.5% of some of the time. Good luck. If you need me, you’ll find me trying to give myself a lobotomy with a scouring sponge.