Tim Dowling: nobody’s laughing – is the joke on me?

There was a kid in my year in high school named Jimmy Tremarelli. We were in a couple of the same classes, and also had occasion to pass each other in the hall between bells about three times a day. Whenever we did Jimmy would nod and say, “Dr Dowling”, and I would say, “Dr Tremarelli”. And then we’d carry on in opposite directions.

Over the years the pretence became gradually more elaborate. Sometimes Jim would steal up alongside me at the end of class, cupping my elbow in the palm of his hand.

“Doctor,” he might say. “I know you’re busy, but I have a case I’d like to get your opinion on.” I would then stare at him gravely for a few seconds.

“Call my secretary,” I would say. Then we’d nod and go our separate ways. We were 15.

I can’t remember how or why it started, but in the hundreds of times Jim and I encountered one another over the course of three years, we never didn’t do it, not once. It wasn’t for anyone else’s benefit – I’m not sure anyone else even knew about it. I just remember students streaming round us, taking no notice as we stood there consulting in the corridor by the gym doors.

When it began we didn’t even know each other that well. Arguably we never really got to know each other any better. I don’t recall us ever having a normal conversation; we were just too committed to the bit.

I never saw Jim again after graduation. But I think of him often, whenever I feel that same, slightly dangerous sense of commitment to a joke that has run its course – most recently whenever I refer to Sainsbury’s as “Saino’s”.

I remember how this one started: I was striding across the kitchen with a shopping bag when I stopped short to pat myself for keys, wallet, and phone. The oldest one, sitting in front of his laptop, glanced up, taking me in.

“You going Saino’s?” he said. I laughed. There was something in how he seemed to be mocking someone who would use such an abbreviation, while simultaneously taking an unbridled delight in it, that struck me as funny. But I accept that you had to be there, and that even if you had been it might not have been enough.

That didn’t stop me from immediately adopting his diminutive. For the last two years I have never referred to Sainsbury’s as anything but “Saino’s”. No one else has ever laughed; the only thing my commitment has earned me is my wife’s contempt.

“I’m off out,” she says, leaning her head through my office door. “Do we need anything you can think of?”

I stare at the backs of my hands for a moment, weighing my options, one of which is, as always, a quiet life.

“You going Saino’s?” I say.

“If you call it that again I’m going to kill you,” she says. “But yes, probably.” Once more, I weigh my options.

“Big Saino’s?” I say.

In the absence of any potential for comic development, the only thing that makes my dedication worthwhile is the hope that sheer repetition will eventually open up some new vista of funniness. On that front I can only say: nothing so far.

The real danger lies in commitment for commitment’s sake – that instead of passing comment on the sort of irritating person who exclusively calls Sainsbury’s Saino’s, I have simply become him.

On a weekend away with another couple, my wife drives us back from a long dog walk on the beach – women in front, men in back.

“Have we got enough wine?” says one friend.

“Will anything be open?” says the other.

“There’s a Saino’s on the way,” I say, without thinking.

“Shut up!” my wife yells, turning to our friend in front. “I’m afraid he calls Sainsbury’s Saino’s.”

“Why?” says our friend in front.

“I don’t know,” my wife says.

“Why?” says our friend, turning round toward me.

“I’ll tell you,” I say. “But when I’m about halfway through my explanation 10 minutes from now, I want you to remember: you asked.”

The other day I looked up Jimmy Tremarelli to see if, by any chance, he went on to become an actual medical practitioner. It would, if nothing else, constitute an unparalleled commitment to the bit. The truth is almost stranger: he’s a teacher, still working in the same high school that we attended together 45 years ago. I like to think that if I went there tomorrow and caught his eye as we passed each other in the crowded hall, he would just nod and say “Doctor”, and I would say it back.