Will Harris on the etiquette of dumping

And so it came to pass that my friend P and his boyfriend have decided to part ways. Well, almost. “Honestly, how is one supposed to get closure and enter the next chapter of one’s life, when the person you’re trying to dump is not taking one’s calls?” P, iPhone pressed to one ear, rolls his eyes in exasperation. We are walking across Waterloo Bridge in the early spring sunshine. “If one didn’t know better, one would swear the little s*** can sense what’s coming.”

“Why are you talking like that?” I ask.
“What? Oh, the ‘ones’? I was wondering when you’d notice. I’m practicing my elocution for the Jubilee.”

P, you might realise, has not been lucky enough to receive a gold-embossed invite from the Jubilee girl herself. Even the most Machiavellian of spider monkeys can only shin so high up the social tree. But he has been invited to a party hosted by some mega posh gays he knows, who all met at public school and who I’ve taken to referring to as the ‘Old Homonians’, much to his chagrin.

“I don’t know why you’re so fixated with that lot,” I say. “They’re like deep sea marine life, they don’t know how to function in modern society. Do you remember that specimen Daniel brought to Chinatown? All teeth. Sat there and ordered a ‘Diet Cake’…”

“His name’s Rory, and if you’d bothered to engage with him, you’d know he’s terribly interesting…”
“‘Diet Cake’ with ice and lemon’. The poor waitress. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was on the next boat back to Nanjing.”

P isn’t listening. I watch as again he punches a number into his phone, and again gets put straight through to voicemail.
He’d known it was time to call things a day when the two of them had gone out for dinner and, for the first time since they’d started dating, P had suggested they split the bill.

“Is it still considered bad form to dump by text?”

The boyfriend’s response had demonstrated a dramatic range so accomplished it would’ve had even the BAFTA judging panel stuck to their seats. It had everything; the brooding menace of Burton in Look Back In Anger; the explosive rage of Brando in Streetcar. By the end of it P hadn’t known whether to storm out or give a standing ovation.

“No answer,” he sighs. “Is it still considered bad form to break up with someone by text? Surely technology’s moved on enough by now.”
I give this consideration. “Well, H texts in sick for work when she’s hungover. And technically that’s worse because she has to look her colleagues in the eye the next day and know she’s deceived them, whereas you never have to see this guy again.”
“You’re right,” says P. “God, I love living in the future.”