Andy Richardson: Quiet please! Look who's (still) talking

I have a friend who talks in all the right places. She's the perfect listener, she knows when to chat and when to be quiet. She's the Yoda of conversation. She's like the Samaritans and Tim Vine all wrapped up in one. Attentive ear, killer punchlines. Man, I wish I was her. Actually, I don't. She's a size 0 and I'm a 30-inch waist. And if I was her I'd have to throw my John Galliano T-shirts away because they'd no longer fit.

But I digress.

My friend has the social skills of an A-lister who's used to pressing the flesh. I have the social skills of an amoeba. Actually, that's not fair. Ameoba can't talk. And I can. And that's half the problem. I either don't say anything or talk too much. There's no halfway house.

When it comes to conversation, my friend has 10 gears. She moves from neutral to first with a polite enquiry: 'good morning, how are you?' and then ascends and descends, following the flow of the conversation like a surfer killing big waves.

I have two gears. On and off. I'm either mute like a donkey or free-flowing like a jazzman blowing his horn. Conversation comes as quickly as bowel movements for a drunk after a vindaloo.

Mute mode is funny. People say things like: 'Are you alright?' Or: 'You look worried, is everything okay?' And I reply that I've worn the same expression for 45 years but it's kind of them to ask.

People assume I'm deep in thought, working out some extraordinarily-difficult strategy that will make the world a better place. I'm not. I'm just wondering when it would be appropriate to say: 'Do you fancy a peanut, I'm starving?'

The talking thing is even worse. I called my friend three days ago and told her I'd had an epiphany. I spent 15 minutes telling her what it was, during which she said: 'yes', 'that's great', and 'really'. Those. Were. Actually. The. Only. Things. She. Had. The. Chance. To. Say. I talked at her for 900 seconds.

And when she got off the phone, her friend said: 'Is everything okay?' She'd been unable to get a word in edgeways and they'd assumed there'd been a domestic disaster.

I once tried to become a Samaritan. I'd called the line twice – girl troubles, don't ask – and wanted to give something back. I've always had an affinity for the Black Dog Tribe and figured I could help.

My first attempt came while living in London. A new recruits' evening was being held in Soho and I went along to volunteer. I was late. Doh. And the woman at the door said: 'What would happen if you were late for your shift and someone was making an emergency call?' It was a point well made. I got my coat.

I was on time on the next occasion, which was in Wolverhampton. I attended a new recruits' event where I was interviewed by a kind, sweet lady who had the grace of Mother Teresa. Humility was her middle name. She asked me this question: 'If you were accepted as a Samaritan, what would worry you most about it?'

I think she expected me to talk about the trauma of taking calls from the suicidal and distressed. She was worried that I might be emotionally scarred from hearing tales of abuse or maltreatment, or being present as bodies thudded against a rock called bottom.

This is what I said: 'Well, I think I'd be fine. But the thing that would worry me is the hours. You know, if I was working a night shift I'd have to be in at 2am and then I've got to get back to the office for 7.30am and I. . . dribble. . . Muppet life. . . know when to shut up. . . her eyes have glazed over dude. . .'

I didn't get the gig as a Samaritan. And that's just as well. Because if there's one thing I'm awful at, it's listening. And if there's one thing the Samaritans are good at, it's. . . look, you get the drill.

So I telephoned my friend to tell her I was writing a column about how to be a brilliant conversationalist. She paused, then said: 'What would you know about that?'

I tried to tell her that the fact I talked too much to her was actually a compliment. Hell yeah. I told her that I only really got chatty with people I respected and trusted. I tried to explain how I. . . and then I got bored of the sound of my own voice and gave her some airtime. And listening brought new pleasures that I've only ever dreamed of.

Even an old dog can learn new tricks. Woof.