The early signs were there. But because it was the 90s and the term “neurodivergent” hadn’t made its way to the underprivileged public schools of western Sydney, I was diagnosed as an “old soul” instead.
For a while my passion, nay purpose in life, was studying etiquette.
I would check out books in the library, devour columns in the back of women’s magazines and tape re-runs of Martha Stewart.
My parents, bless them, just accepted they had a “weird kid” on their hands and bought me the second-hand Emily Post guides I requested.
Do I look like a soft target? Do I give off the sad vibes of a person who can be inconvenienced?
Brianna Parkins: The Australian Ambassador to Ireland came over for dinner recently
Give me a quiet quitter over a loud worker any day - there’s nothing worse
Brianna Parkins: I’ve nothing against Irish men. I keep one myself. But I recommend Irish women
I devoted my time to knowing what was “appropriate” in any setting. I was training for my adult life.
I refused to humiliate myself by setting out the sherry glasses where the water goblets should be like some common yokel. When I met the pope I would know to wear a long-sleeved dress and veil on my head. You wouldn’t catch me out wearing a tiara to a state dinner without making sure the band matched my hair colour. I would never be so gauche.
[ Give me a quiet quitter over a loud worker any day - there’s nothing worseOpens in new window ]
I clearly had a lot of confidence in my future, given at this point in my life, visiting an eat-in Pizza Hut was my idea of fine dining and my social outings consisted of knock-off Colin the Caterpillar cakes served at soft play centre birthday parties.
But that was beside the point. Because when my future husband’s boss invariably came over to dinner, I would secure my beloved’s promotion and our family’s financial future by making sure he sat on my right.
It didn’t occur to me that I would be the one to have a boss when I grew up, because etiquette books tended to be written before women were allowed to have credit cards.
So I would map out seating arrangements like a logic problem – what if my husband’s boss is coming, but he’s a diplomat and we’re entertaining foreign dignitaries who take precedence in the seating? Unless one guest was the ambassador of our home country, he (and it would be a he, obviously) would take precedence over all. What a conundrum!
When the Australian Ambassador to Ireland did actually come over for dinner recently, he sat himself at the table in our tiny kitchen and ate the dinner my boyfriend cooked off mismatched Ikea plates.
My 10-year-old self would be disgusted. But at least now I know how to comport myself with dignity (if I choose) in any situation, from shooting weekends to nightclub bathrooms.
Wherever I find myself in life, I should in theory always be able to style it out with grace and self-confidence. However, there are some occasions where I will never know what to do with myself, such as ...
Waiting at a pharmacy for a script: I’m trying to stand far enough away from you and the pharmacist with an operatic level of vocal projection so you can collect your wart cream with dignity. But I also need to stay close enough to hear them call my name.
I’ll dissociate in an aisle in panic for a bit, averting my gaze. Until I realise it looks like I’ve been staring with intense interest at personal lubricant and worming tablets for a good 10 minutes.
A colleague bringing their newborn into work: I like babies. And I love a temporary distraction from the work day, regardless of what it is. I’m still giddy about that bird flying in through the window two years ago. So thank you for bringing your baby into the office.
[ If I was hiring people, I would send candidates to the airportOpens in new window ]
It’s the grown up version of “Show and Tell” after the school holidays. It’s just that I never know what to say after the obligatory “ooohh so cute”. Now we’re all just awkwardly standing around and I’m asking daft questions about what they weighed when they were born just to make conversation.
You’ll tell me in pounds and I’ll nod like I know what that means even though I’ve used the metric system exclusively my whole life. Then we’ll make polite chit-chat until I get caught at an emotional crossroads feeling guilty about not working and for having to end our conversation when I can see you’re really proud to show us what you made.
Your spouse being in the bridal party at a wedding when you are not: You have to get yourself to the church and sit alone like a secret mistress of one the betrothed while they’ve had a fun morning of prosecco and hip flasks.
Then you have to watch them play pretend spouses with someone looking good in a stiff updo or a rented three-piece suit all day. Walking arm and arm down the church aisle at the end, beaming away. Posing together in photos like a debs couple. Choreographing what funny little dance they’ll do together when introduced at the reception to the strains of Bruno Mars’ Marry You, while giggling in the hallway.
Then you’ll be stuck at the “spares” table with people you don’t know and have nothing in common with, other than your romantic partners ditching you to sit at the top table with the happy couple.
The best way to avoid this is to get really drunk and yell “why don’t you just marry them if you fancy them that much” just when your spouse and their counterpart bridesmaid/groomsmen do their stupid entrance dance to the diningroom. Emily Post would approve.
