It’s a scenario we’ve all experienced: you turn a corner too quickly, clip a doorframe with your shoulder, and, before you can even process the pain, the words tumble out: “Oh, sorry.” Not to the person behind you (there isn’t one) or to yourself (that would be logical), but to the doorframe. The inanimate, unfeeling, utterly oblivious doorframe. Why? What has compelled you to show remorse to a bit of wood that neither knows nor cares about your existence?
Welcome to one of the great mysteries of human behaviour: the apology to objects. It’s a habit so ingrained in the British psyche that we don’t even question it. The kettle that we fill halfway? “Sorry.” The chair that stubbed our toe? “Oops, sorry.” The hoover that suffered a collision with the skirting board? “Terribly sorry.” These apologies tumble out as naturally as tea into a mug, and yet they make absolutely no sense.
Or do they?
The Polite Reflex
Brits are nothing if not apologetic. We apologise when someone else bumps into us. We apologise when the weather takes a turn (as if it’s our personal failing that it’s raining). Extending this compulsive politeness to the inanimate world is, perhaps, the logical next step. After all, the chair didn’t ask to be in your way, and the hoover certainly didn’t deserve the indignity of being rammed into a coffee table.
This instinct might also stem from a need to soften our own clumsiness. It’s not that we think the chair has feelings, but saying “sorry” is an easier reflex than admitting we’re the type of person who can’t navigate around furniture. It’s a small attempt to restore dignity, even if only to ourselves.
Everyday Object Apology Scenarios
Let’s consider some classic moments when apologies to inanimate objects seem unavoidable.
The Chair Stub: You walk through a room with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, whacking your shin against a chair leg. “Oh, sorry!” you yelp, as though the chair might otherwise take offence.
The Doorframe Incident: Mid-stride, you clip the edge of the doorframe, a perfect blend of misjudgement and overconfidence. “Whoops, sorry!” you mutter, rubbing your shoulder as though the doorframe will demand reparations.
The Kettle Misstep: You’ve filled the kettle halfway, realised it’s not enough for everyone’s tea, and gone back for more. “Sorry about that,” you say, as though the kettle might have been insulted by your lack of foresight.
The Fridge Catastrophe: You reach for the milk, accidentally knock over a bottle of orange juice, and instinctively apologise to both items. It’s unclear who the apology is meant for, but the fridge now contains both regret and a small puddle.
The Unlikely Sentience of Furniture
Could it be, deep down, that we worry objects might hold grudges? That the chair we bumped into will remember this slight the next time we sit on it? That the vacuum, fed up with its bruised skirting boards, might one day revolt? Unlikely, but it’s a funny thought. After all, we anthropomorphise objects all the time—giving them names, personalities, and even feelings. Maybe apologising is just an extension of that, a subconscious attempt to stay on their good side.
A Reflection of Humanity
What does this strange habit say about us as a species? Perhaps it reveals an admirable tendency to acknowledge mistakes, even tiny ones. Or maybe it’s a sign of our relentless need for harmony, a desire to smooth over even the most insignificant of disturbances.
In a way, it’s rather endearing. We’ve developed a reflex for humility that extends beyond other people and into the very fabric of our surroundings. How many species can say they’ve shown courtesy to a rogue coffee table? None, except perhaps cats—but their apologies are never sincere.
Embrace the Absurdity
So, should we stop apologising to objects? Absolutely not. It’s harmless, a little charming, and quintessentially human. If anything, we should lean into it. Apologise to the doorframe, the chair, the kettle, and the toaster that burned your crumpet. After all, these silent companions endure our clumsiness, forgetfulness, and occasional acts of neglect without complaint.
And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, that chair leg is a little hurt you didn’t see it coming. Best to be polite, just in case.
Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.
With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.
Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.
A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.
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