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. However, it is more difficult than ever to wipe that winning smile from my cracked lips when our darling grandchildren hoist themselves onto my bony lap, as happened yesterday. The boy Horatio has an honest face, with piercing blue eyes and his Nana’s lantern jaw, which I believe will lead him toward the profession of courtroom law. One laser-like stare from our H and the defendant will no doubt, very much against advice of counsel, blurt out something along the lines of: “It was me, I done it.” The girl Hypatia, with my jug ears and Kitty’s substantial forearms, may wander into the navy as one used to giving orders without rebuttal. I see in her future a series of ships whose crews knuckle their foreheads with lowered eyes whenever she hoves into view. They are a healthy twosome and very amusing whenever we have them over for tea, plus proving the rule that one can never have too many biscuits on hand.
Last Sunday, the children noticed my column, which I just happened to have open near where they sat, and wondered why the column appears with a sketch rather than the photo the other columnists use. This is not the first time the subject has been raised; one or more of my friends have commented also on this discrepancy. The answer is simple. The editor in chief (the Duchess of Douglas Street) told me I was Sunday froth and my work must never be confused with the gravitas of the professional writers sprinkled about her pages. To that end I would be given a cartoon face, which I had better be content with or else. Nodding like a pleasant but frightened puppy, I started washing her feet. She looked at me with small concern, then stepped into her limo and roared off to another opening or whatever one does in her position.
Lately, however, I have observed a young man with a camera standing outside my club asking fellow mems, “Who is the Major, please?” I am happy to say that so far my friends have kept my secret to themselves, although one has been heard to say, “How much, eh?” The thing is I have become used to my anonymity and the protection it affords me, especially as I have witnessed scores of people pursuing other columnists because they have inadvertently touched on some subject close to more than a few hearts.
On the other hand, I can stride through a town fairly littered with retired majors and no one is the wiser. Therefore, the sight of a freelance photo-chap lurking about has sent shivers through parts of me that have never had shivers before. He spotted me once because I averted my eyes from his studious gaze and gave chase as I went into third gear. We rounded Yates and Douglas with the young man gaining. I was only saved by a stolen Safeway shopping cart, which he failed to avoid. I took refuge in a nearby wine store, which as it happened, was in the midst of a local wine-tasting. I re- emerged 10 minutes later temporarily blind, feeling my way home from there. A ghastly day indeed. The point is that I am allowed to write fairly freely without much threat of physical harm because not many know what my pie looks like, if you take my meaning. Yes, one or two letters have been rude, but mostly I sail along happily. A few letters have been rude, but mostly I sail along happily. So if that chap is still outside the club with his camera, mum is the word.
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