Civility.

Sitting on the bus on the way home, I murmured an 'excuse me' to a woman who sat on the outer seat. She shifted so that I could move in and take up my favourite spot next to the window, on the elevated footrest. Well, yes, I'm short and don't like my legs to dangle.

It wasn't till a few stops later that I noticed a woman sitting on the outer seat in front of me shifting to allow for another girl to move in. The conspiracy theorist in me then wondered, 'is there something wrong with the inner seats on this bus that they're not telling us?'

Then I remembered; even if there were something wrong, it wasn't likely for anyone to tell us about it anyway. Of course, I'm assuming it's something minor. Like a bad smell, a patch of dirt, or something. No one really bothers to tell you about it, and it's not malice or apathy so much as the tacit understanding that you shouldn't talk to strangers on a bus.

Yep, we prevent ourselves from spreading goodwill through a mother's caution and bashfulness.

My realisation of how our conversation with strangers never seem to move beyond niceties of P's and Q's activated the irony seeker in me.

What if, long long ago, in medieval (possibly fictional) times when people were hale and hearty and merry and chatted people up as easy as pie, some disgruntled Scrooge wondered why people weren't more polite?

Random funniness.