Good morning, Victoria! What a splendid life we lead here, when every day fairly shouts: Buttered toast and scones. I simply must get over being this happy all the time as the gods will begin lining up against me for the hubris that oozes from my soft pores.
There is one point that saddens me about our club and that is the factions. Now there have always been factions about, and the dimmest of us can see that birds of a feather flock and all that. I speak of more hardy lots that have a certain rigidity, with a tinge of turpitude, which I have always found unsettling vis-à-vis club life — the sort of chaps who, when hearing of world hunger, would be inclined to say, “Hard cheese, old boy.”
I sometimes think that we at the club (the home of homes) should do away with the large memorial grandfather clock that sits on the grand stair landing. After all, if there was ever a group that did not want to hear the passing of time, it would be the denizens of this city sanctuary. All too soon, many of us will have our day in the high court before St. Peter to explain about the time, in my case, that I stole my younger brother’s marbles (cats-eyes) or looted my sister’s Halloween takings, so I find the ticking unsettling and wish it elsewhere.
Major’s Corner Today marks the beginning of a new summer series, Major’s Corner, by Victoria clubman Maj. (ret’d) Nigel Smythe-Brown. The series continues for the next 12 weeks. Put down your croquet mallet, pour a Pimms and prepare to be amused.
Finally … I am moving to the Sunday edition. A lucky few of you will remember my previous perch in the Monday Edition on the last page stuck between “Taxidermy: The Owl, Pt. 2” and “Midwifery: Anyone Can Do It.” This has all come about in the oddest of fashions in that I will be replacing Up Island Willy’s much-beloved column, The Many Uses of Worm Castings, after words were exchanged between Willy and the commissionaire about his parking spot.
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