Clarissa gets an email address.

‘What do you mean, he wrote to you?’. It was true. Greg Champion had sent me an email after this post appeared. I didn’t tell her he thought it was funny….

Clarissa stirred her G&T in a manner which could only be described as narky. ‘I’m the one who’s going to write him his best songs this year. I’m the one who’s organising you to knit socks for him. Unless -‘ She looked at me suspiciously. ‘Unless he likes you more than me.’

‘Clarissa -‘ This was really getting ridiculous and I could see it had to be nipped in the bud before this whole Greg Champion thing started coming between us. ‘Clarissa, I don’t even know Greg Champion. We spoke for about 90 seconds after one of his shows. If he were sitting right here at this table I shouldn’t think he would recognise me. I’m sure if he wanted to develop a relationship with a dressmaker’s dummy you’d be the one. But does he? Personally I doubt it.’

We were both quiet as we contemplated the possibility for a bit. ‘And even if he did, what about your work at NASA? What about Neil? And Fevola?’ I still didn’t believe she’d dropped him altogether. In fact she looked rather shifty as I mentioned him. ‘How on earth can you manage all that at once?’

I finished off my G&T. ‘Look, Clarissa, I’ve decided there is only one way to settle this. I’ve set up an email address for you and I’m letting Greg know about it. Either he emails you or he doesn’t. Just don’t blame me if the outcome isn’t what you wanted.’ She looked SO excited, I started feeling bad as I’m sure no good is going to come of this. Still….’Now write this down:

ClarissaatNASA@yahoo.com

and -‘ Just then her phone rang. Some problem at NASA. Is the red button for on or off? Nobody can ever remember…I left her to it as I took our empty glasses inside.

Contrary Clarissa

One thing strikes me about Clarissa at the moment. I have no idea where her head’s at (so to speak). She’s just all over the place. One moment it’s fighting for Somalia, the next moment it’s crocheted bicycle covers. I’d say it was hormones if…you know….

We went to the Brunswick music festival the other week and now she’s asked me to knit her a pair of socks. I looked rather dubious but she said ‘Oh, they aren’t for me’ (that was not a great surprise since she doesn’t have any feet). ‘They’re for Greg’. She simpered. Honestly, simpered. There is no other word for it. We’d been to see Greg Champion, you see, and Clarissa has been giggling ever since.

I figured she needed a reality check. ‘Clarissa’ I said,

(a) Greg has a beautiful girlfriend, have you thought about that? You saw her that night.
(b) He is tall. You know what they say about tall men. Big feet. NOBODY knits socks for men with big feet, let along for men as a favour to somebody else.
(c) What about Fevola? You can’t be carrying a candle for Fevola one day and fancy Greg Champion the next. Get some consistency, girl.’

As usual she had an answer for everything.

(a) She may be a beautiful girlfriend, but can she write? I’m going to send Greg some songs for him to play on Sat morning. They’ll be the funniest, cleverest songs he has ever received. They will make him fall in love with me.
(b) His feet aren’t that big, really, he has quite refined feet for a man of his size. AND you are a fast knitter, are you not? She stared at me. Daring me to disagree, I suppose.
(c)….

She muttered something about not liking how Fevola had played on Saturday. It’s all very well, she said, to get those goals at the end when they are desperately needed – she was talking about the game against Brisbane – but if he’d gotten them earlier on they wouldn’t have been desperately needed, would they? It was logic hard to argue with. But was it enough to make a girl turn from Fevola to Champion??? I feel like there is more going on here than I’ve been told about….I’ll let you know if I uncover what the real story is.

Clarissa and the Carlton boy

‘I had a dream last night’. I was having a G&T, but Clarissa was on call – expecting some astronaut to ring up – so she was having a weaker-than-usual martini. It was the extra olive that made it weaker.

Clarissa stirred and then continued ‘I was with Brendon Fevola. We were playing a game of chess -‘. I had to break in there. ‘Clarissa. You aren’t seriously telling me that. Don’t tell me that was the best you could come up with for something to do with Fevola’. For those of you who might not know, Brendon is an ace footballer and well, girls like him.

Brendon Fevola warming up for a game of chess.
Brendon Fevola warming up for a game of chess.

‘I like chess. And he’s a good player’, said Clarissa, indignantly. ‘Not that he was ever winning. Until…’ – and did I see Clarissa smirk now? – ‘…I didn’t notice that he could mate me. I don’t know how I could have missed it…’ Well, Clarissa. I think I do.