Eye Contact

Being off work, I’m spending a lot of time in the Woman’s World. This is the world out of doors during office hours, when all the mums with prams are out along with the elderly widows, whose hubbies couldn’t take the pace and popped their clogs a mere 5 or 10 years after retirement. (Incidentally, why has women’s retirement age been traditionally lower than men’s, when women outlive men by 10 years or more?)

It’s brought back to my attention a strange observation. In supermarkets, men are far politer than women. Now this is obviously written with a gender bias (I believe the gulf in outlook between the two genders makes almost all discussion on gender issues near impossible) but from this man’s point of view, the simple matter of two trolleys passing is generally much easier with another man piloting the other trolley. Here’s how the etiquette goes:

Guy pushing trolley notices other trolley on collision course.
Guy looks in the eyes of the person pushing the other trolley.
Other person is also a guy, who is therefore looking in the eyes of guy a.
Some magic happens (I’ve not managed to analyse what exactly happens here. I think it’s in the eyes and body positioning)
Both guys know whether the other guy wants to stop there, go back, or pass on the left or right.

Now in the guy/lady scenario:
Guy pushing trolley notices other trolley on collision course.
Guy looks in the eyes of the person pushing the other trolley.
Other person stares at goods on shelf, shopping list or floor and either does not change course or charges directly at guy.
Guy defers to lady.

Also, walking around town with my slightly squiffy back, I’ve noticed this is a common thing. The number of people who seem to charge directly at you while looking in nearby shop windows with gritted determination is surprising. Now before you get all scientific on my ass, I’m well aware that these observations are extremely subjective and not at all statistically reliable: I didn’t take the time to tally up the people that this didn’t happen with, and have no control to compare with.

I began to wonder about this eye contact thing. In the end I thought it must boil down to a sexual prey scenario: don’t meet a guy’s eyes of you’[ll end up bringing up his kids on a run-down council estate and having to turn tricks for cigarettes. Or something. I thought how sad! All that perfectly platonic human contact down the toilet for the sake of a sexual neurosis! I tried to think whether it was a specifically British thing: don’t the spanish make eye contact for much longer than the Brits and it doesn’t mean anything there? God! Why to people have to always assume there’s some sexual dimension to be avoided at all cost? How sad!

On the way home, a girl was walking up the road, the sun behind her. I couldn’t make out her features but she had the most unruly mane of blonde hair I’d seen since Glastonbury ‘96… Almost in dredlocks. As she moved into the shadows her face became visible, and there was this lovely pair of bright eyes looking me straight in the eye, and a sort of half-concealed knowing smile was wrestling with her features, trying to get out.

Woo hoo! Said my LSB. I’m in there! Follow her home! Go On!

D’oh.