I’m sure you’ll have been in a café at some time and heard a glass smash.
People reflexively crane over their shoulders, as if expecting a life-threatening situation. The more collected lean back and call something smug like “Taxi!”
I know these responses well.
I have heard the smashing and more often been the smasher.
In my time I have worked in two cafés and smashed many, stacks, trayfuls of glasses.
And always the responses are along the above lines. It is pretty embarrassing.
There was a preppy-dressed golf instructor swanning about the first time my husband took me to a Driving Range. Three times I belted a ball into a side pole, causing it to *PINGGGG* off into the rough on a 30 degree angle. The golf instructor made some comment likening this to a smashing incident in a café.
He knew that I was a smasher.
But then I realised there was very little chance he had been in South Gippsland many years ago, drinking coffee in one of the cafés I blundered about in, smashing things to save up money to go to Uni.
More likely, he had good-naturedly assumed I wasn’t a smasher. He was trying to make me feel ok about the *PINGGGG* X3 thing. He was suggesting that this type of thing happens all the time.
And I wasn’t embarrassed. Not even for a second.
Possibly even without the good-natured, preppy-dressed golf instructor’s comments I wouldn’t have been embarrassed. I wouldn’t have wanted to waste the time.
I had just spent a semester huddled over a desk. It felt really good swinging a big stick around. It was really satisfying smashing a seemingly endless pile of little balls into a green field. The sun was out, the clouds were pretty and I was with my husband, smashing things in a productive way.