Eavesdropping, they say, is impolite. But life often hands you moments where you have no choice but to accidentally overhear things—sometimes amusing, sometimes infuriating, and occasionally life-changing.
I never set out to be a professional fly on the wall, but over the years, I have found myself in just the right (or wrong) places to witness history, humour, and human folly in its rawest form. From the murmurs of world-famous actors over dinner to the mutterings of sports selectors dismissing my potential, these conversations, plucked from my diaries, are windows into different times, places, and cultures.
Here’s what I heard—whether I wanted to or not.
1) 1996 – Chutney Mary, Chelsea, London:
Peter Ustinov & Sean Connery: A Masterclass in Wit.
It was my last evening in London before flying to Vietnam for a cycling trip from Saigon to China via Hanoi. I had decided to treat myself to a meal at the legendary Chutney Mary in Chelsea—a restaurant where the curry was exquisite, the clientele high-profile, and the air thick with money.
Seated at my small table in a partially empty conservatory, I was quietly contemplating the extensive menu when I heard the unmistakable voice of Sir Sean Connery. I looked up—there he was, sitting at the table next to mine, alongside Sir Peter Ustinov.
Ustinov, a master storyteller, was in full flow, effortlessly dissecting the British media landscape. “Murdoch and Maxwell,” he declared, “are the Montagues and Capulets of tabloid publishing. A blood feud, but instead of Verona, the battlefield is Fleet Street.”
Connery chuckled, his deep Scottish burr adding weight to his amusement. “Aye, and if I were directing this play, I’d poison them both in the second act.”
I pretended to study the menu, but in reality, I was savouring every syllable. The two knights were having the kind of conversation you’d expect from seasoned actors and wits—biting, brilliant, and tinged with just enough mischief to make it pure nectar for an eavesdropper.
2) 1974 – Train from Harwich to Liverpool Street, London:
England Badminton Players Elliot Stuart & David Eddy: Immigration Snobbery at its Finest.
Returning from a United Banks team badminton trip to Holland, I found myself standing outside a train compartment occupied by two senior England players, Elliot Stuart and David Eddy.
They were discussing my immigration ordeal at Harwich, where officials had subjected me to a hard time simply because of my background.
“Honestly,” Stuart sneered, “if he’s got this much trouble at the border, imagine the mess he’d make under pressure on court.”
“Lancashire selectors won’t touch him,” Eddy agreed. “They need players who can handle the heat.”
I stood there, silently fuming. Prejudice disguised as sporting critique—a theme I would encounter again.
3) 1996 – Bleeker Street, Greenwich Village, New York City:
Diane Keaton & Goldie Hawn: Sunday Gossip & Laughter Therapy.
That morning, I had run the New York City Marathon, an exhilarating, grueling experience that left me utterly drained. I stumbled into a small, unpretentious Italian restaurant on Bleeker Street, my body screaming for carbohydrates.
As I sat down, I spotted Diane Keaton and Goldie Hawn at a nearby table. I had always admired Keaton, especially since The Godfather and her Woody Allen films, and there she was—effortlessly stylish in her signature turtleneck and oversized glasses. Goldie, by contrast, was radiating her usual effervescent charm, her laughter bubbling through the room.
Their conversation was a lively mix of Greenwich Village gossip and industry chatter.
Keaton, in her trademark deadpan delivery: “…and then he PAINTS himself into the portrait. Completely nude.”
Goldie erupted into that infectious, full-bodied laugh that could disarm even the grumpiest New Yorker. “No! You’re joking!”
Keaton sipped her wine. “I wish I were.”
I had no idea who the artist in question was, but I desperately wanted to know more. A middle-aged painter, inserting himself—naked—into commissioned works? This was better than any movie.
4) 1962 – Prang Besar Estate, Malaya:
Cuban Missiles & Corned Beef Wisdom.
It was a warm evening in Malaya, and on the verandah of our colonial estate house, my father, K.P. George, and his old friend, Lucky Strike Tan, sat in easy rattan chairs, sipping brandy and ginger ale from cut glasses. The aroma of hot fried corned beef stirred with homegrown curry leaves wafted through the air as I, an 11-year-old, pretended to focus on my homework in the side room.
Their voices drifted toward me. The topic? The Cuban Missile Crisis.
Lucky Strike Tan exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “George, by tomorrow, the world might be gone. Kennedy, Khrushchev—one bad move, and civilisation ends. Can you believe it?”
My father, ever unflappable, took a bite of his corned beef and shrugged. “Then we may as well enjoy dinner.”
To an 11-year-old, the idea that the entire world could vanish overnight was terrifying. But looking back, my father’s attitude was perhaps the most sensible one—why panic over something you can’t control?
5) 1971 – Markland Hill Tennis, Squash & Badminton Club, Bolton:
Lancashire Selectors, The War of the Roses & An Asian Outsider.
Fresh out of the men’s shower after a training session, I walked past a small meeting room where the Lancashire County Badminton Selectors were deep in conversation. What I overheard stopped me in my tracks.
They were discussing team selection for the upcoming Lancashire vs. Yorkshire match—a fixture soaked in centuries of bitter rivalry between the Red Rose and White Rose counties. And then, my name came up.
Birtwistle, the chief selector, scoffed. “He’s got the skill, no doubt. But does he have the bottle? A derby like this—pressure’s immense.”
Another voice chimed in. “Asian lad, isn’t he? Can they handle the heat?”
I froze. So that was it. My selection wasn’t just about skill—it was about whether someone like me could cut the mustard in high-pressure situations.
I clenched my fists, walked on, and made a quiet vow. One day, I would prove them wrong.
6) 1988 – Mediation Room, United Reform Church, Hest Bank, Lancaster:
Reverend Collinson & The Fate of My Marriage
Seeking help for my troubled marriage to Janet Ingrid George, we turned to the Reverend Collinson, the vicar who had married us just three years earlier in the very same church.
Separated into different rooms, I sat alone while he spoke with Janet. And then, through the walls, I overheard his advice to her.
“…perhaps it’s beyond redemption. His Asian culture, his standards… maybe you should terminate the marriage.”
I sat there, stunned.
A man of faith, someone who had blessed our union, was now dismissing it as a cultural incompatibility. It was not just heartbreaking—it was a betrayal.
7) 1991 – British Embassy, Ampang, Kuala Lumpur:
The Immigration Officer from Leeds & A Test of Marriage.
A whirlwind romance had led to a whirlwind marriage. I had met Sara Varghese, a Malayalee dentist from Sydney, in Kuala Lumpur, and in a moment of bold spontaneity—or madness, depending on perspective—we had tied the knot.
Now, we faced our next hurdle: obtaining her visa so she could accompany me back to England.
At the British Embassy in Ampang, we were led into separate rooms—standard protocol, they said, to ensure our marriage wasn’t a sham. A sort of Mr. & Mrs. meets the Green Card movie, except instead of a charming Hollywood rom-com, we were dealing with an ignorant Yorkshire immigration officer who had all the warmth of a wet towel.
From my room, I could hear snippets of his interrogation of Sara through the thin embassy walls.
“What are the distinguishing marks on your husband’s body—say, below the navel?”
My ears burned.
What the hell was this? A visa application or a highly inappropriate pub quiz?
Sara, to her credit, answered with grace and diplomacy, despite the embarrassment. But I had heard enough.
I stormed into the room. “Excuse me, but what exactly do my below-the-navel markings have to do with a visa?”
The Yorkshireman, caught off guard, stammered something about fraud prevention. I wasn’t having it. “If this is how you determine the legitimacy of a marriage, I’ll have you in court faster than you can say ‘judicial review.’”
A long silence.
Finally, he sighed, grabbed Sara’s passport, and with a reluctant thud, stamped the visa approval inside.
I turned to Sara. “Congratulations, Mrs. George. Apparently, my belly button just saved our marriage.”
8) 1984 – Lancaster Castle High Court, England:
Judges Edmondson & Sandy Temple: The Class System in Action:
The robing room of a historic castle courthouse is supposed to be a place of quiet contemplation, where barristers and judges prepare for legal combat. That day, I was in the solicitor’s room, nervously awaiting a hearing related to a boundary dispute—a seemingly dull case, but one filled with legal complexities.
Through the thin walls, I overheard two senior judges, Edmondson and Sandy Temple, discussing the case. Except they weren’t focused on the legal merits—they were mocking the incompetence of the two barristers involved.
Judge Temple sighed. “Frankly, between the two of them, they wouldn’t know a boundary from a barbed wire fence.”
Judge Edmondson chuckled. “Indeed, if I let them argue long enough, I expect one of them will accidentally cede Lancashire to Yorkshire!”
A pause. Then Temple added, “Of course, neither will come to any harm. One’s father is an old friend of mine, and the other, well, his uncle went to Cambridge with the Lord Chief Justice.”
I stiffened. The class system, in all its unapologetic privilege, laid bare in a few sentences. Meanwhile, I, a newly qualified solicitor—and the only person of colour in the entire court that day—was still learning the unspoken rules of the game.
I had hoped justice was blind. But sometimes, I realised, it just squinted and favoured the well-connected.
9) 2024 – Border of Bolivia & Northwest Argentina:
Maria, the Ungrateful Hitchhiker.
At 72, I had embarked on a three-month journey across Argentina, traveling down the legendary Ruta 40, with its vast pampas, towering Andes, and relentless Patagonian winds. Along the way, in Gamian, Patagonia, I had encountered Maria, a fellow traveler who had pleaded with me for a free ride. Out of kindness, I had agreed.
Big mistake.
At the border between Bolivia and Northwest Argentina, we stopped so she could get signal and check in with her friends. She paced outside the Renault Kangoo van, her phone pressed to her ear. She must have thought I was too far away to hear.
“Honestly, he’s such a control freak. Won’t even let me book a hotel! We have to sleep in the van like we’re on some stupid survival show. And don’t get me started on his driving…”
I sat in the middle of the van, well within earshot. I could hear every word.
By the time she returned, I was waiting for her.
“Maria, I think we’ve reached the end of our journey together.”
Her face paled. “What?”
I gestured to the road. “You don’t have to suffer my control-freak ways any longer. You can continue from here—on your own.”
Her protests were immediate, but my mind was made up. She had assumed she could insult me behind my back, forgetting that the walls of a Renault Kangoo are thin—and so is my patience for ungrateful travel companions.
Conclusion: The Joy of Being a Fly on the Wall.
From actors to judges, badminton snobs to disgruntled hitchhikers, these snippets of conversation have taught me more about people than any direct discussion ever could.
Some stories are best told. Others? Best accidentally overheard.