Dumped, Actually(70)

‘Yep.’

Well, that makes about as much sense as the rest of my life, I guess.

‘Probably.’

Can I ask just one more question at this juncture, though? I feel it’s an important one.

‘Go right ahead, mate.’

Why are you talking in an Australian accent?

The elephant shrugs. This should be impossible, given that it’s just a floating head, but it manages it all the same. ‘Search me, mate. I’m just your subconscious given metaphorical flesh, I only know what you know.’

You should be talking in an Indian accent, surely?

‘I guess so. But here I am, talking like I just stepped out of an episode of Neighbours, for some bloody reason.’

You are. I wonder why?

‘Dunno, mate.’ The elephant leans in a little. ‘Maybe it’s because you’re a bloody idiot, and your grasp of how an Indian person should sound isn’t very good. You’re therefore trying to avoid descending into stereotype, by replacing that accent with one more familiar to you, from years of watching low-grade, imported soap operas.’

Sounds quite likely, I have to agree. But calling me an idiot is a bit steep.

‘Is it? Because I appear to have huge flappy ears, mate . . . and the only elephants that have huge flappy ears are African ones. You’re a good four thousand miles too far to the west – in terms of your visual representation of the largest member of the pachyderm family.’

Oh, right. Fair point. I pause in reflection for a second. But would an idiot know what a pachyderm is? Or have a vocabulary large enough to use words like unfettered and manifested?

The elephant ponders this salient point for a moment. ‘Ah, you’re right, mate. Fair go, fair go. Let’s just agree your grasp on the accuracies of the Indian subcontinent and its varieties of fauna aren’t great, and move on, shall we?’

Agreed . . . and what are we moving on to?

‘Well, bloody hell, mate. We’re in here for some self-discovery, ain’t we? Let’s discover some shit!’

Okay, elephant, what exactly should we be discovering?

‘Troy.’

What?

‘My name’s Troy, mate.’

Wasn’t that a horse, not an elephant?

Troy the elephant gives me a disparaging look. ‘Don’t try to be clever, sport. We haven’t got all day.’

Sorry. But I have to ask again . . . What should we be discovering?

This earns me another meaningful look. ‘Reasons, mate. Reasons.’

For what?

‘For why you keep making the decisions you do! For why you keep making the same mistakes with your life! Answers to the questions that plague you, so to speak.’

But I don’t know the answers, Troy! I spit in frustration. That’s the problem!

‘Ah . . . yeah, you do. Deep down you do, mate. It’s just hard to engage with them. Difficult. That’s why I’m here, to help you confront things that otherwise you probably wouldn’t.’

Such as?

‘Well, now . . . how about your pathological need for love?’

I do not have a pathological need for love!

‘Oh yes, you bloody do! You’ve spent your entire life searching for the one, haven’t you? Gretchen, Yukio, Lisa, Sam . . .’

And what’s wrong with that??

‘Well, mate. It’s made you kind of . . . desperate, don’t you think?’

Desperate?

‘Yep. And desperate is just another word for needy, isn’t it?’

Is it?

‘Yeah! A man with your extensive vocabulary knows that! And that desperation is why you went so overboard with Sam, so early. Why you scared her away.’ Troy looks upward thoughtfully. ‘Come to think of it, you’re not just needy with women, are you?’

What do you mean?

‘Look at “Dumped Actually”.’

What about it?

‘Well . . . you get dumped by Samantha, and what do you do? You start writing a feature all about it!’

So what? Erica wanted me to do it!

‘Ah, bollocks, mate. You didn’t have to do it! You wanted to do it! And it wasn’t just to help you get over Samantha!’

Why, then? Why am I writing it??

‘Like I say, mate. Love. In this case, the love you get from other people. You couldn’t get that from Samantha any more, so you substituted her with about a million other folk.’

Oh God.

‘That’s why you’ve been putting yourself through all of these ridiculous bloody pursuits, sport. To keep your readers happy. To keep them loving you. You can’t find the love you want with a woman, so your readers will just have to do in the meantime.’

That’s awful – and a little weird.

‘Eh, could be worse, to be honest. None of us are fuckin’ perfect.’

Do you have to swear like that?

‘Yes, I do have to fuckin’ swear! Because it feels good!’ The elephant narrows its eyes. ‘And that’s another fuckin’ thing, while we’re on it. You never swear. Not fuckin’ properly, anyways!’

Stop it!

‘No! You fuckin’ drongo! Why don’t you swear more?’

Because it’s rude!

‘Bollocks! You don’t fuckin’ swear more, because you don’t want to fuckin’ offend people! You don’t want their fuckin’ disapproval!’