SOMERSET MAUGHAM AND FACEBOOK

I remember reading a Somerset Maugham short story once in which the writer moves into a house where he is told one of his neighbours is a poet. Interested to meet the bard in question, Maugham decides to pay him a visit. When the gentleman opens the door, Maugham is immediately impressed by his physical appearance, and goes on to describe his keen eyes, noble face – generally, he is exactly what he expects a poet to look like, the twist in the story being that he’s actually called at the wrong house and is describing the wrong man.

I was reminded of this story after a particularly vivid dream, which I won’t recount in full out of pure compassion. I don’t know how Freud did it, listening to all those people’s dreams – to me, it’s the most boring thing anyone can do, start to recall dreams to you. It’s just a load of mumbo jumbo, “I was in this dark place, which was like my grandmother’s coal cellar, but it wasn’t, and there was this huge carrot...” blah, blah, blah. Utter nonsense. But this dream of mine was different - it really left a mark on me. I was at an airport and had seen an American student I’d studied with in Italy about 20 years ago. She was there with her Italian husband (who was her then boyfriend) and several children. They hadn’t seen me, but I was truly delighted to clap eyes on them. I awoke with a strong feeling of wanting, nay needing, to get in touch with her, but I knew not how.

I trawled the Internet to no avail. I searched Facebook for every possible combination of her name, but without success. Then, more recently, I had another dream about her, and was left with the same nagging desire for contact. This time, Facebook came up trumps – she was not only there under her maiden name, but she was first on the list. The photo was unmistakable, the brief info I gleaned through her lax privacy settings gave me all the confirmation I needed – living in a small Calabrian village, several kids, owner of an English school (oh, the irony!) Without wishing to be pushy and go straight for a friend request, I sent her what I thought was a suitably cool, honed message, eager to re-establish contact and see just what my dream was telling me.

To date she has not replied.

I realise now I should have included a Disclaimer:

PLEASE NOTE THAT:

1. I AM NO LONGER THE PERSON I WAS;
2. I HAVE GOT A HANDLE ON MY DRINKING;
3. I LIVE ON A DIFFERENT CONTINENT FROM YOU;
4. I NO LONGER WRITE POETRY.

UPDATE: I've just realised that I sent the message on 14 February (Valentine's Day), which was probably an error, as it may have insinuated I now wear thick glasses and have been harbouring an unspoken, stalker-style, 20-year crush. Timing is everything.

ANOTHER UPDATE: She once told me she dropped tabs of LSD on a fairly regular basis, so, quite apart from the detrimental effects on her long-term memory, she may have had trouble smelling my name. Or summat.