Peter Bromhead: Cosmic irony

Illustration / Peter Bromhead

When a young lady approached me at a gallery opening and whispered in my ear, "I love reading your columns, you really are a complete literary tosser with all that cosmic irony stuff", I could only smile graciously.

Inwardly, however, I wondered: "What the hell is cosmic irony?" Back in front of my computer, I started searching.

One dictionary described it as, "a type of irony in which Fate, the Universe, God, or whichever omnipotent force you choose, makes it their sole purpose to mess with your life. They like to screw you over, and watch the mayhem while laughing at your misfortune." Suitably chastised, I thought I'd try wallowing in a bit of cosmic irony over breakfast.

Staring mournfully into my cornflakes, I awaited the household's reaction.

"For heaven's sake hurry, or we'll be late for the kid's swimming lessons," the caregiver impatiently snapped, ignoring my limp hangdog appearance, which I believed suggested a creative spirit struggling with his literary demons.

"It's okay for you, you haven't been written off as a cosmic ironist, like me," I wearily announced, rising from the table.

The caregiver immediately assumed I was constipated and advised me to take some ghastly stuff we administer to the little ones when their bowel motions turn to concrete.

"It's my creative soul that needs an elixir," I retorted, hurrying the children into the car.

The subject was again addressed poolside, when the caregiver curiously asked, "What's all that stuff you were muttering earlier today?"

I explained I couldn't hide my inner feelings any more and it was now obvious to newspaper readers that I was burdening them with "cosmic irony".

As usual, the caregiver immediately turned to her PDA, seeking enlightenment from Google. "It states here that a typical example of 'cosmic irony' is an author who facetiously states something as a well-known fact and then demonstrates through the narrative that the fact is untrue." She added, "that does sound like the nonsense you're churning out."

"Mea culpa!" I moaned, "at a gallery function recently, a charming young lady damned me with faint praise by suggesting exactly that."

"So, what are you going to do about it?" the caregiver retorted.

Apprehensive that as a newspaper hack, I now had a reputation to maintain as a complete literary tosser, I cautiously proclaimed, "maybe I'll try and hide my layers of cosmic irony with a subtle coating of metafiction."