I’ve just been on a writer’s weekend at a lovely place with delicious food, where we sat round tables for six in a room with a huge picture window overlooking the bay.
The following day I got chatting to a fellow guest. She had been on my table the previous evening, keeping everyone entertained with chat and tricks which she laid out on the cloth, using first money (how can you make two rows of five with moving only one coin?) and then cutlery. Thank goodness for extraverts.
As we stood there the next morning with our coffee she said ‘you were VERY CLOSED at dinner last night. VERY closed.’
I heaved an inward sigh. No, I wasn’t closed. I have a bout of fibromyalgia that has so far lasted three months. I was feeling shattered. I had taken a conscious decision to listen and ask the odd empathic question, rather than talk myself. I was, in fact, the archetypal introvert.
Was it worth saying? Even if I did, would she understand? I didn’t think so. The world belongs to extraverts, it seems. If you’re not chatty and outgoing all the time, then there’s something wrong with you.
Ah well. That’s their problem, not mine.