Is giving someone the new edition of the Debrett’s Handbook, with revised sections on British style, correct form and modern manners for the 21st century, just about the rudest thing you could do? Imagine unwrapping it as a hostess gift! Imagine finding it in the calf of your Christmas stocking, between a net of chocolate money and that Veronica Lake DVD. Talk about the Naughty List!
I have a friend, a former Marine from the Bronx, who trains Hollywood stars who need to bulk up or down for movie roles. He likes to meet shows of disrespect with a neat text to the guilty saying “Get Well Soon”. But by dispatching this impressive red and gold volume instead — it looks from a distance like an extremely deluxe box of chocolates — he might bring his point home with even more élan. I am not suggesting generous application of neon highlighter pen to the sections that refer to the relevant infringements — though maybe I am.
Everyone likes discussing the proper care and management of Ps and Qs, listing infractions recent and historical. It’s a nice feeling to elicit gasps of shock and awe. “And then I arrived seven minutes early for lunch and was standing with the children in the rain so I telephoned from the doorstep to say sorry there had been no traffic — I know early guests are annoying — and might we come in and she said, ‘Would you please come at the time we agreed!’”
Happy days.
Yet, discussing others’ lapses is a disgraceful pastime. Drawing attention to poor conduct, we surely make ourselves worse than the other fellow. If someone shovels food into his mouth with his palms at my table, if I am very polite I ought to do the same. Making someone else feel not up to scratch is rudeness in its essence. Break a vase on my mantel, why, if I have good manners, I ought to knock over the matching one right away.
Yet, leafing through the large book, I suddenly felt rather peaceful. The section on small talk brought on waves of nostalgia. A long time ago, out and about, people used to say things like, “Isn’t the light beautiful today?” or “That’s the funny thing about slippers...” and not, as happened to a Jewish friend of mine at a wedding, “Tell me Michael, why didn’t your people do more to stick up for themselves in the war?”
Do not ever be afraid of being boring, the book says encouragingly, for smiles and eye contact will always enliven things. I like the feeling of being bored. In difficult times I have sought out boring people and found their company very soothing.
Even the section on thank-you letters struck a reassuring tone. The example given was natural and not superslick: thanks, specific thanks, news, offer of reciprocal hospitality, repeat thanks...
Debrett’s runs a sort of helpline for one’s dilemmas. These used to concern what was correct, or dress codes for Ascot, but these days most of their telephone enquiries relate to matters concerning 21st-century behaviour. In this baffling era of social media and the smartphone as transitional object, what is wrong, what is not incorrect, what is acceptable and what is admirable is all strangely up for grabs. In Sathnam Sanghera’s wonderful novel Marriage Material (2013) the hero receives a text of condolence on the death of his father from his cousin: “RIP INNIT’”
Is that better than nothing?
Is it worse?
As luck would have it I managed to speak to Jo Bryant, the serious and charming editor of the Handbook, on the telephone. My word I did sit up straight to take her call. We both agreed we set a lot of store by the conduct of others. We agreed it was better and nicer to require a lot from oneself rather than demand it from the rest of the world.
There were all sorts of things I wanted to ask her but I thought they might make me seem coarse. I could hardly say that the idea that upper-class English people have better manners than anyone else is really funny. But when she spoke of good manners being about removing awkwardness and minimising anxiety, I felt her power to achieve this through sky-high levels of care and thought.
Is there an aspect of good manners that you loathe? I asked, naughtily.
“Empty courtesies,” she said, “empty courtesies that don’t mean anything.”
I wondered what these might possibly be? I hoped she did not endure too many of them. After we had thanked each other profusely for the conversation, I rather felt like challenging the practitioners of these empty courtesies to a duel. Then I prised my chewing gum from the lip of my saucer and popped it back into my mouth.
— Financial Times
