'Don't you write about me, you baboon'

I have a suspicion that most, if not all of us, have experienced this: you spot something particularly fascinating. Maybe it's a pair of Piet-my-vrous perched on a branch, inappropriately displaying their affection for each other in public.

Or a man at OR Tambo International wearing tracksuit pants and cowboy boots. Or, better yet, two geniuses embroiled in a fist fight over a parking bay in Newtown, Johannesburg.

This being the technology age, you whip out your smartphone so you can send a picture to your Facebook friends for giggles. However, just as you're about to click away, a certain Captain Ed Murphy enters the scene.

Yes, the aviation engineer after whom Murphy's Law is named.

story_article_left1

About 0.3 seconds before you take the shot, the two avian lovers fly away, the man in the tracksuit pants disappears behind an advertising banner and the two Neanderthals get an acute attack of pacifism and stop trying to decapitate each other.

People with kids will identify with this, as well. Kids will stop the cute thing they were doing and pose for a picture as soon as they see a camera.

Being a lifestyle magazine columnist is not too dissimilar to being a photographer. A simplistic description of the job is "walking around, observing human behaviour and other phenomena and writing about it".

A few years ago, my fellow Lifestyle columnist Paige Nick and I were standing chatting outside the Franschhoek town hall when she leant over to me and said: "Do you find that friends and family members modify their behaviour when you're around because they're scared you'll write a column about them?"

I flippantly responded: "Maybe one of us should write a column about how nobody wants to be the subject of a column."

Paige was right. At a recent high-school reunion, people kept saying, "I can't get too drunk and misbehave because Ndumiso will write about me".

block_quotes_start Do you find that friends and family members modify their behaviour when you're around because they're scared you'll write a column about them? block_quotes_end

My friend Dr Sibusiso Mzinyane was far more blunt about it: "Write about me in your column and I'll break your jaw." That's why I would never write about him. (Did you see what I just did there?)

Even my own mother has said things to me that were immediately followed by, "Ungabhali ngami ke wena mfene" (And don't you write about me, you baboon).

In essence, I have figuratively become a photographer and people have started posing for me instead of going on with their business as usual. It's a disconcerting feeling.

Of course, the bunch of primitive savages I call my friends could not give a rat's pancreas what I think. They continue behaving like the uncouth heathens they are.

I once sat next to a young fellow on my flight to Cape Town to attend the Franschhoek Literary Festival. I'd asked for a window seat so that I could lean against the window with my head buried in a book, to minimise the possibility of the annoying chitchat one is often subjected to while travelling.

I have never seen the point of standing in those long queues to board a plane, so by the time I boarded, most passengers were already seated. My seat was taken by the young chap.

"Is this your seat? Do you mind if we swap and you take the middle seat?"

My natural inclination was to retort curtly, "I do mind, actually", which would have nipped any further interaction in the bud and assured me a peaceful journey.

But right at that point, I heard Louis Gossett jnr's voice from those Windhoek ads inside my head: "What are you doing Ndumiso? Real columnists don't avoid chitchat. They immerse themselves in inane jabber."

So I gave him a wide smile and went, "Sure, a seat is a seat". The woman in the aisle seat groaned audibly as we immediately started jabbering away while she tried to concentrate on whatever it was she was doing on her PC.

story_article_right2

The first question the young man (it turns out he was 17) asked me was: "Is this your first time flying? This is my fourth time, but my first time flying alone."

I smiled and told him I had flown a few times in my life.

When he asked me what I did for a living, I was attacked by a momentary lapse in short-term memory and mumbled something inaudible. He wasn't really interested anyway and continued prattling away merrily.

By the time we were flying somewhere over the Karoo, I already knew everything about his dad's libido based on how many half-brothers and half-sisters my companion had.

By the time the flight started its descent, we had moved on to his cousin Rupert, who was born with six toes. It was a riveting conversation.

I wish everyone I met was as generous with their stories as Rupert's cousin. I think Paige would echo my sentiment: when you meet a columnist, don't walk in the opposite direction. Share your story about that time you ran away from home and ended up in the circus.

• Follow the author of this article, Ndumiso Ngcobo, on Twitter: @NdumisoNgcobo.