Humour: Awkwardophobic? Try my cunning techniques

Hi. My name is Ndumiso and I have a morbid fear of awkward situations.

I'm reliably told that classical Greek went the way of the dodo before awkward situations were invented, because there is no medical term for this phobia. The closest contenders are Anthropophobia and Katagelophobia - fears of social interaction and ridicule respectively. But both are a bit different.

I work mostly from home, which is really a polite way of saying I'm a glorified bum. So a few mornings ago I get up around 10am and find I'm surprisingly hungry. I saunter into the kitchen with that smug "this is my house" swagger, open the freezer and take out a stash of veggie soup.

Our fairly new helper, Aunty Pinky, was lurking around the kitchen, wiping surfaces and things. And as I take out a soup bowl from a cupboard, she says: "Ugesi usanda kuhamba" (We just had a power cut).

From my bending position I look up at her and go "Huh?" So she repeats, "Ugesi usanda kuhamba". With that "So what?" look I go: "Oh, okay" and continue fishing out a bowl and then dish out a healthy helping of soup. At this stage I realised Aunty Pinky had stopped wiping and was leaning against a counter, hands folded, watching me with avid curiosity.

I must pause here to explain something. My everyday behaviour in my own space is not "normal", whatever your definition of "normal" is.

Mrs N and the boys are used to it and brush it off. I often think of stuff and just burst out laughing, or have little chats with the voices in my head. I call them Bart, Lisa, Marge and Homer, because they sound like Simpsons characters.

And I'm also notoriously scatter-brained. Aunty Pinky has noticed that I often walk into a room, scratch my head before exiting without doing anything.

Sometimes I walk into the scullery, empty mango peels into the sink, dump the saucer into the garbage can and walk away singing What A Wonderful World in Homer's voice.

This time, Pinky watched with interest as I placed the soup in the microwave and closed the door, at which point the dots between "Ugesi usanda kuhamba" and my intentions finally connected.

I could feel her eyes boring a hole into the back of my head. For a second I even contemplated turning around and digging into my cold soup with the spoon to "save face", before realising that this would only deepen her concerns about my sanity.

So I muttered: "Sengenzela ukuthi mawubuya ugesi ngivele ngiciphize kanye" (This will save me time when the power is back.) And then I walked away, humming What A Wonderful World. She's been giving me a wider berth than normal ever since.

I've become very adept at this "saving face" thing. I remember once walking into a boardroom back when I used to slave at Unilever, while listening to Michael Jackson's Billie Jean on my iPod. I flicked the light on, executed a 360-degree twirl and then my best moonwalk before standing on tiptoe, screaming: "Hee hee!" with imaginary glove pointing at the sky.

At that point a Dutch expatriate named Dirk cleared his throat from a corner of the room where he was working on his laptop. I mumbled something about practicing for a team-building karaoke event. He was quite senior in the company, and I can neither confirm nor deny a link between this incident and the career stagnation that followed.

One of my favourite "saving face" techniques is the imaginary phone call. I was cursed with an awful navigational sense. If I walk into a strange building and need two turns or more to reach my destination, I need a Garmin to find the exit afterwards.

Let's suppose I choose to go left and discover that the corridor that ends in a balcony, I don't turn around immediately so that I have to walk past the same place I've just come from. Receptionist types love giggling at klutzes like me. No siree! I whip out my phone and pretend to be using the balcony for a private chat before waltzing past the front desk, yelling into the mouthpiece: "Yes, Patrice! I'll draw up the contracts and mail them directly to the Foundation!"

I ain't goin' down like that. That awkward situation when you leave a table of "polite company" to use the bathroom and return more than five minutes later? I always imagine people thinking: "I guess he went for a No 2, then." I know that's what I think. And the idea of them thinking it is very awkward for me. So I always return on the phone, promising to send Patrice those important documents.

Am I the only one, then? Yes? Oh, okay. In an unrelated bulletin, if anybody finds a bowl of marbles marked "NN", please return them to me. They use to be residents of my skull. LS

• ngcobon@sundaytimes.co.za @NdumisoNgcobo