The Hobart Chronicles IX: Hear the wind blow

“She said,
‘Losing love is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you’re blown apart
Everybody hears the wind blow.’”

- Paul Simon, Graceland (1986)

Bitter.

August in TasNarnia is bitter; the wind howls under the eaves at night. Bald Ross has gone his way, I go mine, and I am bitter.

All situations require maintenance. In this case I’ve felt obliged to issue community service notices to friends, along the lines of, 'before you ask after him, we’ve split.'

Advice to help one avoid asking questions that chart a direct path from foot to mouth is important, I feel. I have made an extreme sport of these sorts of gaffes. Every one of my long suffering friends has been at the wrong end of my singular talent for making the most obtuse statements possible. Like,

“Come out for a beer on Friday. Why don’t you bring your girlfriend?”
“I’m gay.”

Oh.

By the time I grew up enough to learn to use the word ‘partner’, this is what happened:

“Come out for a coffee on Saturday. Why don’t you bring your partner?”
“I’m divorced.”

Uh.

“Great bloke. Reckon he’s checking you out. You should crack on to him.”
“He’s my ex. I went out with him for seven years.”

Mm hm.

“What a nice son you have!”
“Ah, that’s Rupert’s son, not mine. That’s his ex wife over there.”

“That mechanic I went to on Tuesday, what an arsehole, didn’t do a thing to my car and charged me a fortune for the privilege. Crooks, should be kneecapped.”
“Look, here comes my best mate Wayne; Wayne, I believe you’ve met Miss A, you looked at her car last week?”

“Damned God-botherers.”
“Actually, I quite enjoy church, I go every week.”

Recognise any of these? It’s a wonder I have any friends at all. To quote Homer (Simpson, not that other bloke who wrote the poem), “D’oh.”

How many times have I wished for those little dossiers about people that PAs prepare for Managing Directors before they go to the staff Christmas party. Helpful little cards that say things like,

Marge Bouvier, 45, HR. Divorced after husband lost the kids in a game of snakes and ladders. DO NOT offer her the punch.

Winona, 33, Accounts (on stress leave). Conviction for shoplifting (Kmart, September). No jokes about the company’s bottom line.

Basil Fawlty, 48, Hospitality. Mad. DON’T mention the war.

Alas, real life is not so accommodating. Thankfully, most friends are.

Thank you for being big enough to smile and shrug off my remarkable talent. I hope you can continue to forgive me, because right now you, my friend, are all that stands between me and the wind.

As a gesture of goodwill, here’s my own helpfully updated dossier card for you:

Miss A, thirty-something and counting, back on the shelf and getting dusty. Aims to grow better taste in men. Don’t mention the Bald.