By Neil Coupe
I derive very simple pleasure when hearing of ingenious new words or phrases.
Browsing LinkedIn at the weekend, I came across the concept of ‘sweatworking’, where someone was inviting potential work contacts to join a gym so that rather than going somewhere to get away from work for a precious hour or so, they could be meeting potential clients after, or even during, a work-out.
I admit to being slightly cynical at first, but on reflection it is probably a fairly efficient way to network in real life.
If you are going there anyway, and it makes you feel good, you have the added bonus of some work chat. Much more importantly, I like the word.
Within my own little world, my wife rolls her eyes at my own FOMO (fear of missing out).
It does not matter whether it is the opportunity of schlepping all the way into London to spend 45 minutes to have a coffee with someone I had not seen, nor wanted to see, for 15 years, or an invitation to go to a 53rd birthday party in Wolverhampton from a University acquaintance who had recently re-emerged on Facebook.
This is before we consider the opportunity to go for a drink with the people I always go with at the venue we always go to.
I just have to be there.
It was very refreshing at the weekend when one of our friends was invited to join us at one of Berkshire’s finest tapas restaurants, and politely declined, adding that this was down to his JOMO (joy of missing out).
I was thrilled at hearing a new, pithy word, and cannot deny being slightly disappointed that google indicated this word had existed for the past decade or so.
Even if it is not new, what an excellent concept it is. The joy of solitude, being satisfied in one’s own company, and not feeling socially compelled to be involved in something you do not relish, and where your presence is not particularly vital in the first place.
Which brings us to Hallowe’en. This is the point in the year at which my FOMO becomes JOMO.
In my childhood and subsequent formative years, at the time of year when the clocks went back, the main festival was Guy Fawkes night. This is when we collected wood, built a fire, burnt it, let off fireworks and ate toffee apples, black peas and parkin. Simple. Simple, if not exactly in compliance with many of today’s health and safety laws.
This year it felt to me that Guy Fawkes night had become a mere after-thought, and Hallowe’en, once a minority curiosity, is firmly established as a burgeoning industry all of its own.
I was even wished ‘Happy Hallowe’en’ some time towards the end of October.
It is easy for someone of my generation to dismiss it as an American concept imported to the UK, but I was in France three weeks before Hallowe’en, and even there, I saw plenty of witches and assorted memorabilia on display over there in preparation for the ‘Big Day’.
I appreciate that Hallowe’en is a time of great excitement for children, brings people together, gives people the opportunity to dress up and promotes contact between neighbours (if ‘trick and treating’ is considered as such).
At the risk of sounding like an old curmudgeon, for me, it meant no dressing up, no knocking on doors, and a time to fully embrace the concept of JOMO.
