Oscar Wilde would definitely be invited to
my dream dinner party. He could fill the evening with witty and shocking
stories, mostly true tales of debauchery and academia. Utterly delicious. And I
think I might seat him between Woody Allen and Katherine Hepburn to ensure
there’s plenty of zing—sexual tension, smouldering innuendo and unfettered
eccentricity with lashings of fine wine.
Right across from the three of them I’d
seat my dearest long-time friends John and Jenny. I know they’d have fun.
There’d be laughter and plentiful mutual admiration. John would both shock and
fascinate Oscar with his award-winning body-building physique, his incredibly
well-crafted Mardi Gras costumes, and his erudite knowledge of all things
artistic and stylish. He’d probably intimidate Woody, but let’s face it. Who
wouldn’t?
Jen would have Katherine’s head tipped
sideways in rapt admiration as she chatted about sea-kayaking off the coast of
Patagonia, having her beloved dog’s ashes compressed into a diamond, and existing
in the twin worlds of conventional medicine and naturopathy. Katherine would
adore her. I know she would. And Woody might just find the inspiration for his
next movie.
Some friendships are like that, aren’t
they? We three have known each other for more than forty years. At various
times, each of us has lived away from Australia for extended periods. But it has
never mattered. As things stand now, we are still separated by thousands of
kilometres. But that doesn’t matter either. Whenever we are together, Distance
and Time dissolve in the laughter and champagne bubbles.
Other people have claimed we have the sort
of friendship that even if we see each other but rarely can just be picked up
wherever we left off. Some would probably continue to assert it even today. But they’d be
mistaken. Or kidding themselves. Because for them, unseen is the same as
invisible. Our friendship amounts to little more than a sort of comfortable habit
that can be broken.
Or forgotten.
Discarded.
Disregarded.
Their warmth is just air kissing.
I’d never invite them to my dream dinner
party.
But I probably wouldn't want them to be eaten by zombies either.
