Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, Wednesday, March 20, 2002


YOU'VE GOT MAIL, GROAN


EVERY so often, in one of the capital cities, a group of ageing colleagues and I gather to discuss the meaning of journalism, such as it is, over a long session of beer, wine and spirits. Though we have our differences, we have all remained mates in the sense that we have never revealed anything personal about ourselves - no star signs, dreams or detailed love lives - and therefore have been able to preserve our friendship. Until, that is, Maeve revealed at a recent gathering in Melbourne that she had just been dumped by her true love and was devastated. I thought she looked more haggard than usual, even for someone who drinks, smokes and walks like a bloke. It seems she and her beloved lived in different cities and she had spent a lovely couple of weeks with him over Christmas, thinking at the age of 44, she had finally nailed one. But when she returned home, an email was waiting from Dream Bloke announcing he was going to be a father. ``That's odd,'' she thought, patting her tummy and reaching for the phone. Then she noticed the same email had gone to 20 other recipients and she knew none of them. Not only had Dream Bloke betrayed Maeve but he had lacked the guts to tell her face-to-face and had treated her as just another one of his mates, which really hurt. A deplorable act of pure, umm, err, bastardry is the only word for it. She was heartbroken. Imagine how I felt - I thought until then she was a lesbian. We all gathered again last month, this time in Sydney, and beforehand Maeve sent this email to everyone: ``Please be nice and kind and gentle with me this week: not only do I have a broken heart as I so foolishly confessed to Des Ryan last time we met and now the whole bloody world knows about it but also I have given up the smokes!! As a consequence, I am likely to burst into tears at the slightest provocation ... just thought I'd warn you. Oh, and I'm off the grog too.'' We were having a few drinks anyway at the London Hotel, Balmain, stepping delicately around Maeve's bruised ego, when out of the blue she said: ``Did you know I have a 27 year old son?'' Buh-luddy hell! She said as a teenager she had a boy but adopted him out and had not seen him since. She knew his name and where he lived, though, and had been waiting every year since he turned 18 for him to make contact with her. Still waiting, she had to assume he did not know he was adopted because the alternative - that he had no wish to meet her - was unthinkable. And what had prompted her to crack open this deeper, disturbing shell? She had received an email from a friend which contained the killer line: ``I had a drink yesterday with your son.'' Except it was someone else's son - the email had been sent to Maeve by mistake. Too late. She had already freaked and was having trouble coping. Cyberspace is cold and harsh and no one can hear you scream out there. Aaaargh!