Marcel Marceau, eat your heart out

Whoever’s up there pulling our strings has a wonderful sense of humour.

For example, take winter ailments (please, take them!)

Like guided missiles, they target our weaknesses.

One newsreader friend currently sounds like a drag queen due to an annual bout of bronchitis.

(Every time she says “After the break”, I expect her to tear off her jacket to reveal a hot-pink sequined body-suit, and belt out “I Am What I Am” by Shirley Bassey.)

Another mate who’s quite the gourmand is prone to stomach bugs.

Then, there’s Selina*.

Selina is funny, kind, creative and clever – but she could talk under wet cement.

Until your ears bleed.

It’s all terribly witty and amusing.

There’s just too much of it.

And so, this winter – as Murphy’s Law would have it – she’s been rendered mute.

Bleeding vocal chords, apparently, from misusing her asthma inhaler.

Once our chortling subsided, we all banded together to send books, DVDs, emails, even letters for her time in exile.

I suggested she save up for thumb replacement surgery, which will no doubt be needed after all the texting and tweeting.

Thirty-or-so emails, 115 texts and 22 tweets later, we invited her and a friend around for dinner to break the boredom.

It started well, with Juliana** translating the hand gestures, winks and nods rather admirably.

Until wine was consumed.

Then, someone brought up the burka.

This controversial garment straddles sex, religion and politics.

Therefore, it should be avoided during dinner party discourse.

Unfortunately, Sel’s a bit of a firebrand.

And once she’d begun Marcel Marceau-ing, flapping and flailing around the lounge room, there was no stopping her.

In a moment of madness, hubby fetched the kids’ Etch-A-Sketch.

And so it was that Selina added RSI to her existing thumb injury, scrawling sophistry to support her argument to ban the burka.

To top things off, the universe conspired to ruin my lasagne.

Continuing the pasta-making madness, I’d rolled the sheets myself, but forgot to boil them before assembling my masterpiece.

This gave Selina an unfair advantage: our counter-arguments were stuck in our throats as we tried to chew through the soggy cardboard separating the mince from the cheese sauce.

We inadvertently went out in sympathy.

It goes down in history as our second worst dinner party. The worst was in Melbourne 20 years ago.

I’d run out of capsicums for the stir-fry. So I decided to replace them with chillies.

Really hot chillies.

One guest (the aforementioned gourmand) was rushed to hospital, where he had his gall bladder removed the very next day.

(This is a true story.)

One month down the track, Selina still cannot speak.

She’s taken up quilting, making beautiful, busy bed covers to reflect her kaleidoscopic mind.

I’m thinking of signing her up with the Carmelite Nuns so she can be among like-minded folk.

(Except that she’s an atheist.)

Like the bitter winds of winter, these things are sent to try us.

*This is her real name.

**Also her real name.