Philip Womack

On being boring: A brief tedious essay

by Philip Womack

20 March 2008

Philip Womack's novel, 'The Other Book', will be published by Bloomsbury in January 2008.

There are fewer pleasures greater in life than being boring, or than its co-dependent, the state of boredom. If one is known for not being witty, then one can tackle any social situation with ease – one can sit at a dinner table, calmly appreciating the 'chat' that goes on around one, without having to be constantly amusing.

If, during a particularly violent period of 'chat' concerning, say, sport, or money, or sex, or any other of those things which the interesting person discusses during supper, one is asked a question, one can furrow one's brow and launch into an indepth discussion of any medical problems (real or imagined - preferably the latter) that one might have; or a blow by blow account of a conversation with a colleague at work, in which the speaker comes out on top; or perhaps even mention a book that has been recently reviewed favourably in the newspapers.

Thus any attack can be swiftly disposed of, (especially with the third option), and one can return, safely, to admiring a crack in the wall, or toying with one's food.

In the same way, when somebody is telling an obscene joke for the fourteenth time, very loudly and over the port, one can simply say something non-committal about the weather and be done with it.

Thus one emerges, unscathed, with the happy label of 'boring' attached to one, free to make one's meandering way home.

Boredom is deeply underrated.

One of my favourite activities is staring at a wall (for an hour or two), or perhaps reading Kennedy's Latin Primer, or flicking idly through the Etymologies of Isidore of Sevile.

The most fun I ever had in a law firm was counting all the small change that a recently deceased client had left in his flat. (It came to £63.54, with some shillings, pesetas and dollars left over).

The recent film Marie Antoinette was given a hefty pasting by the critics; I loved every slow, dreamy, warm moment of it, every detailed saunter through long passages, every moody look, every simmering glance.

I especially enjoyed the bits in which nobody did anything at all, my favourite one being a scene in which the French Queen and her friends did little more than sit on a lawn, drink some champagne and then get into a boat.

Not a word was said, the plot did not move one iota; it was all simple, blissful, joyous boredom.

When I announced to my grandmother that I was giving up law to become a writer, she said, very grandly, 'but what will you do?'

There seems to be a consensus among human beings that one must do something, that one must draft contracts to lease airplanes, or sell short and buy long, or very, very carefully put documents into date order; it seems to me that the only thing that one should do, that one ought to do, is nothing, and thus, in the eyes of the world, be 'boring'.

And so, when one has achieved the status of being boring, one can finally achieve that state, that ideal, pure state of boredom, in which, against all odds, one finds that things actually start to happen.