AS EVERYONE KNOWS, the only way to leave a party is without saying goodbye. I’ve always thought that there was something quite egomaniacal about going around a large room of revellers tugging at the sleeves of other people and telling each and every one that you’re leaving – no matter that they might be about to deliver the punchline to a painstakingly assembled five-minute story, or that they’ve already poured salt on to that fleshy part of the hand between thumb and forefinger, and hold a slice of lemon in their other hand. You’re about to drink that? Well, you might want a rethink, because . . . I’m leaving.
Among the people that I know – and possibly all around the world – the art of leaving without telling anyone you're going is referred to as "slipping on the ring". It is a reference to the magical powers of invisibility that the titular ring of JRR Tolkien's book The Lord of the Ringsbestowed upon the possessor. All Frodo Baggins had to do was put on the ring and he instantly disappeared. No need to make an empty promise to e-mail Gollum the following week, no need to shake hands with the clique of orcs hanging around in the kitchen and no need to swap numbers with Everard Proudfoot.
It is quite literally the only way to go – particularly if you hate saying goodbyes. I am particularly weak in this regard, having had a few bad experiences with the act of saying “see ya”. So lily-livered am I that I tend to absent myself from family life a few days before my brother flies back home to Australia after a visit to Dublin. I think this aversion has come to me recently. I don’t remember being bad at goodbyes when I was young and skipping around the world, but it’s here now and it’s here to stay. The dime-store psychoanalysis would suggest that it’s a heightened awareness of mortality, both of myself and of those that I love. I’m hardly unique in this fear of death and people dying, and nobody is looking forward to saying the big goodbye to someone they love . . . but I’m really not looking forward it.
Very often, things are defined by what they are not, and in a pleasingly circular narrative twist, I witnessed the very opposite of slipping on the ring at the opening night screening of The Fellowship of the Ringin the Savoy cinema in Dublin, an event after which the phrase "slipping on the ring" was first coined. This was the first of the trilogy of movies directed by Peter Jackson, which generated a narcotic amount of excitement among moviegoers and Tolkien fans worldwide. Also, it was Christmas week 2001, so the excitement in the foyer owed as much to the time of year.
Five of us had snagged highly desirable tickets for the opening night.
We knew it was going to be a long film but, filing into Dublin’s largest cinema, it felt like we were about to attempt to scale Everest in Speedos and flip-flops. The level of preparation all around us was scary. Women had thick blankets, people were taking head counts of children as if they expected one or two to expire throughout the screening. One man had even brought along a large portion of lasagne with green salad in a Tupperware container. And a knife and fork.
We were hideously unprepared. The dogs on the street will tell you never to drink a pint of anything before going to the cinema or theatre, but because of the time of year, we had enjoyed a few drinks beforehand, and one of our number even had a few cans of lager hidden beneath the folds of his jacket.
We were shown to our seats; eight rows from the front, in the middle of the middle of the largest centre row. They were great seats, but settling in and fastening our psychic seatbelts, something was nagging at me. The lights dimmed, the curtains slid back to reveal the screen at its widest aperture, and the audience whooped. Then an eerie calm settled over the room, the sound of expectation, that magical vacuum of bated breath.
– Tss.
My friend with the lager cracked his first can, and the film began.
What felt like three hours later (but was probably one), he could stand it no more. One could tell we were less than one third of the way through this fascinating adaptation, and he couldn’t hold it any longer. He simply had to go to the bathroom. Up he stood, spilling coins, gloves and keys, then slowly disturbing the entire row to his right, grabbing at the seat back of the people in front and obscuring the view of those behind. People stood and let him past, chewing silently on the nuts they had stored in their cheeks. They had starved themselves of liquids in preparation for this event. They knew he was the one with the cans. They had known that they would have to stand up in the middle of the film for him. After stepping on toes, whispering sorry and thank you, he finally reached the aisle and bounded out of the room.
Everything settled down again, and the spell was recast. In the moments of calm on screen you could hear a pin drop in the room, and a good 20 minutes later, my friend returned, to sniggers at the duration of his bathroom break. The return was an equally epic production of sorrys and thank yous – which dominated everyone’s attention.
When he finally made it, it seemed like there would be a cheer from all around. And then there actually was a cheer, because almost to the second that he had landed in his seat, the picture faded off, and up flashed the “Intermission” card. The lights went on, and 150 people in the middle section applauded the long goodbye. Rather him than me.