Hidden lives

We all know about Too Much Infor-mation. But what about Too Little Infor-mation? What about all those everyday things we'd love to ask people about but it's impossible to do so?

I'll see a woman in the street and I'll think, Does she have a boyfriend or a husband? Are they happy together? Are they unhappy? What do they love about each other? What do they dislike? Is she well-off? Is she broke? What's her favourite activity? What does she totally hate doing? What are her obsessions? What are her phobias?

I shall never know because I can't ask. She's a closed book, an enigma, just another person on the street I'll probably never even see again. The perpetual pang of unrequited curiosity.

Sometimes I feel other people are asking similar questions about me. They stare at me quizzically, appraisingly, as if there's something they're dying to know. I wonder what's going through their mind. But just as I can't question them, they can't question me.

Even when I'm alone with someone, they seldom tell me very much about themselves. Either they prefer to keep things private or they don't think I'm trustworthy or sympathetic enough. Unlike some people, who find that everywhere they go, they attract astonishingly intimate and heartfelt confessions. So much so, they start to think it might be less of a burden if they looked a bit more off-putting.

As it is, most of my information about other people comes from the media. I eagerly devour the agony columns, the gossipy interviews, the heartbreaking stories about refugees, flood victims, premature deaths. It's odd that I know more about all these complete strangers than I do about the next-door neighbour or the greengrocer. Or the sad, defeated-looking woman who just got off the bus.

PS: There's another explanation for people not confiding in me. They think I look over-sensitive and possibly easily upset by whatever harrowing story they might tell me. So they keep quiet.

Too much information

It may be weird, but I don't really understand the concept of Too Much Inform-ation. I'm happy for other people to tell me whatever they want about themselves, and if they feel comfortable with it, then so am I. I don't care how strange the subject, if it's important to them, I'm glad they told me.

But of course it doesn't work the other way round. I say things I'm comfortable with, only to discover that other people are NOT comfortable with them and clearly think I've Gone Too Far. I have to hastily retreat and apologise and withdraw the awkward remark. Which I hasten to add, I don't mind doing; I don't want anyone to be squirming at something I've casually blurted out, oblivious to other people's sensibilities.

The thing is, there's very little about me I wouldn't want others to know. I know I'm full of faults and shortcomings and oddities but so is everyone else, so why be nervous about sharing them? Other people don't see it that way though; they feel there are certain things that shouldn't be shared, that they don't want to know, and if I do share them they cringe.

I do in fact keep quiet about a lot of things I'm pretty sure other people wouldn't want to hear. But then I mention something else that seems to me quite innocent and unremarkable and I find I've Said The Wrong Thing. And I scratch my head and wonder what caused such a frisson.

If anything, I would say most people give me Too Little Information. They're so afraid of embarrassing themselves, or embarrassing me, or looking crazy, or being self-centred, or exposing something too intimate, that they stick to neutral, well-trodden topics that avoid anything genuinely revealing. I think we're all far more guarded than we need to be.