There are 16 things you can do when you catch sight of Marilyn Smith, just as there are the same number of things you can do when you run into pretty much anybody for the first time.

Say ‘g’day’, for instance, shake a hand, comment on the quality of the sunlight, avoid comments that hint at weight (gain or loss) or bags under the eyes ... you get it!

But Marilyn isn’t just about anybody in pretty much the same way anybody is, reciprocally, not Marilyn. Get me? She’s different.

So, top of the list of the 16 possible alternatives sits one word: Run. If you can, that is. Meaning, if you haven’t jogged straight into her in a cul-de-sac where your flight path is cut off. Which is precisely where this unfortunate encounter takes place. In which case, as natural instinct kicks in, proceed swiftly to Plan B, or Number 2 on the list: Bend down hastily and do up shoe laces. Take time over it, pretending the laces have become knotted. Time will pass and, hopefully, Marilyn will pass with time. After which period you can straighten up, straighten your back and walk away like a man again looking the world in the eye, leaving behind that momentary cringe of crouching cowardice.

How does one begin describing Marilyn? Those familiar with the British comedy Keeping Up Appearances will easily recognise a Hyacinth Bucket type when they see one. For those who haven’t met her, Hyacinth’s the lady possessed with all the assumed airs of an aristocrat. So vigorously and tediously does she pursue this role of aristocracy that all who cross her path — neighbours, acquaintances — give her a wide berth. They scram, scoot, skedaddle, take a powder, vamos, or just beat it, as MJ, the late king of pop once sang; in fact, one wonders now with hindsight if he wasn’t attributing that song to Hyacinth-dodgers. As for her very common family, Hyacinth will do everything to pretend they don’t exist.

Marilyn, too, walks about attired like a wealthy dowager. She’s been known, behind her back of course, as Mona, the Thrift Shop Countess. But her problem — if indeed it is a problem, who am I to judge? — appears to be of a different kind. Which explains the nickname Mona, conferred by some wit.

What I can say with certainty is that she is a chronic complainer. Life’s a moan and I will sing about it till I die! That appears to be her motto, her sole reason for existence and heaven help you if you run into her. To be honest, you can forget about the 16 things you might say to her on first meeting. Because you’re not likely to get a word in — edgewise, vertically, horizontally, obliquely — and if you do somehow manage to, it’s not likely to register, for you’ll find she’s already in high gear and the merest lending of an ear will trigger her off at high speed. Pedal to the metal.

I’ve unwittingly — in the guise of a good Samaritan and fellow citizen — endured excruciatingly tedious sessions that have dealt with her faulty WiFi network, her wayward 24-year-old who couldn’t care less for his 28-hour-a-week hardworking mother (“At my age. Twenty-eight hours, mind you! And he doesn’t appreciate it one bit! Thinks money grows on trees. Thinks I am a tree. Shake me and the notes tumble down like leaves.”)

I have to admit to secretly admiring that last bit for its poetry. That a woman can be poetic and metaphoric even when moaning is something to be slyly appreciated. I did, at that last encounter, have a line that I wished to leave her with — a stern line, from a quote attributed to the humorist Mark Twain. I was going to tell her, “Don’t go around moaning, saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing, Marilyn. It was here first.”

But what do I do? I bend and fiddle with my bootlaces.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.