Life is ongoing. It is something that never lets up and as a consequence we tend to become borne up and sent along at giddying rates that lead us to forget ourselves, and when caught up in this maelstrom there may come a moment that will make us stumble, moments when fate holds up a mirror to our souls and allows us sufficient time for a sufficient butchers. Such a moment I experienced at a a corporate conference some time last year.
After my graduation (a degree useless enough to be printed on toilet paper - a scatological consolation) I entered into the employ of a national mapping agency and to this end was invited to represent my particular outlet at the national conference. Not having been in the maps business for long I was somewhat intimidated by the prospect, imagining people to be deep in discussion regards geo-positional satellites, or the difficulties of edge matching traditional tiles, with me the outsider, the pigeon among the cats.
However, I had prepared myself sufficiently and set my target at survival, with anything else a bonus. Naturally enough such trepidation was ill founded. Much of the presentations in that first morning covered subject matter I was familiar with and by chance I found myself adopted by a couple of seasoned mappers. The small scale representatives joined us after lunch and I found myself neighbour to a doodler from Reading. Lets call him Dave.
After a brief and quiet introduction we settled down to fervent un-note taking, me listening, complimentary pencil lying prone before me, Dave appearing to be listening whilst sketching what at first appeared to be a disjointed bundle of abstract shapes. Halfway through the update on the digitisation 1:10 000 scale mapping those shapes resolved themselves to be nothing but a Cyberman.
The trap was set. All I had to do was fix my eyes to the OHP screen, lean forward and nod whenever anyone used their hand. But no, fool that I was I spoke. I was a Cyberman once, I said, before confessing to Dave an incident where I spent a day sweating in a silver sprayed boiler suit bearing plastic shielding capable of causing testicular torsion if I so much as walked briskly, all in the name of promoting the college SF society.
Dave showed interest and I at once realised my error, and attempted to cover my tracks. Not really into it that much, just something I did with my friends. They made me do it really. Thanks principally to the diversion of the presentation I managed to dodge the issue and all was well. Dave and I even found another common link in that he was customer to one of our sister companies. Safe ground and not so much as a whisper of a Daleks testicle.
After much coffeeing and biscuiting we all returned to our various rooms and prepared for dinner. I felt I was making progress, and gaining a wider knowledge of the agency network. I felt like I was a grown up. I felt like my Dad.
By some evil twist of fate however, at the meal I found myself not only seated once again to doodling Dave, but also on the same table as Gary McDonald, the all powerful Agents Manager. This was the informal zone, though - it had been set out as such in the program of events - so I was a little more relaxed. More relaxed than I should have been. I slipped. One of the things I have learnt about fans and fandom is that there is a great embarrassment concerning their obsessions. As a result, no SF fan can start an SF conversation with a stranger without asking a question, and that question must start with a word. And the word is so.
So, how long have you been into Doctor Who? said Dave. Well, like I say, its not something Im really into. I dont even no much about it.
We had been overheard. A mapper in our midst spoke up with the sentence which sparks all non-fandom conversations about Doctor Who. Doctor Who? he spake, thats going back a bit. Maybe it was the wine at this point, but for some reason I thought now would be a good time to show off my lack of knowledge. 1963, I said.
Suddenly half the table, sans Gary and myself, were interested in the Doctor, going through the usual list of subjects: favourite eras, favourite villains, and me still fighting desperately hard to maintain my level of denial: I did go to the worst convention ever, but I was working, and I just wanted to meet Sophie Aldred. Which was true. I worked the Dreamwatch convention, hoping to meet Sophie and stop her doing something stupid. Like marry a game show host. What? replied Dave, Flopticon? No, Dreamwatch.
I had made another mistake. We had both hit anecdote zone. Anecdotes work because it allows the conversation holder to switch off, ignore his surrounding, and relax into a familiar routine he doesnt have to think about. Its next door to being asleep. And so, as I nicely segued from my attempts to start a conspiracy theory on the press table regards cash machines recording fingerprints, from the near mutiny against Gary Leigh over the charity auction, I was oblivious to Gary McDonalds increasing levels of frustration.
Were not going to spend the whole evening talking about Doctor Who! He had snapped, Dave and I regarding him with a little shock. And then, from the other side of the table, the side that had been oblivious to the last hour or so of prattle, someone spoke: Doctor Who? Now thats going back a bit! 1963, I said, the words falling out like broken teeth. Gary left the table in search of wine, and the conversation, what there was of it, continued.
There was no recover from this. As I dragged myself through the second day of the conference, I was slowly coming to terms with it. I had denied it long enough (how can I be into this stuff? I read Burroughs for Christs sake!) but could lie to myself no longer. Coming out was easier than this was. On the long train journey back home, the words seared into me reeling brain, and froze the lymph in my glands. I. Was. Sad.
And the worst thing is, I had never been happier.
Article Text © 1998/2003 the respective author(s). All other text © Rob Morris / SAD Magazine. Design © Rob Morris 1999/2003. No reproduction of material in whole or in part may be undertaken without permission of the copyright holders.