It was a frantic day at the club, brought on by the sudden discovery that some fool in the kitchen had allowed the marmalade supply to dwindle to nothing.
The Monday morning started well enough as I assessed the overnight damage to the Smythe-Brown superstructure and, finding none, leapt like a stag to attend the once-a- week round table breakfast with like-minded fellows at the club.
It was only when we had declared our wants and needs to Rogers, my preferred barman and waiter, that a shout of terror arose from a nearby table and the discovery of the empty jar of club marmalade was made. The dining room populace fairly drooped with disappointment as the word passed between the tables that the Scottish favourite “Och Rind” was no more. Then a new mem brightly called out: “What about jam?” This brought several buns in his direction and he rightly fled. New mems are not allowed to speak for a year in the memorial dining room, and certainly not drivel about the lowly jam pot.
We grumbled into our porridge and kippers and snarled at the staff whenever the double doors of the kitchen swung open. I mean to say, no marmalade!
However this poisoned swamp was the perfect place to discuss a subject we had only slightly touched upon during the past weeks, that of “What do our wives really think of us?” I, as one of the saner mems, was asked to give an opinion and so struggled to my feet and faced the early-morning crowd.
I pointed out that in my case, the memsahib let me have her thoughts on this very subject only last week, and they were not good. I think it came about because after several martinis before our dinner, I waxed, I thought eloquent, on the incredibly rich lives my wife Kitty and I have had over our 50 some years together, the fact that I could not imagine sharing my life with anyone else, etc.
It was then that Kitty dropped the bomb that she had found my habits disgusting all these years and it was a miracle she had stayed with me. The room swam before me. “Disgusting,” she had called me! Before I could push back with a snappy rebuttal, she decked me with a series of blows to my heart, which is metaphorically speaking my glass jaw.
Apparently when not speaking, my mouth swings open like a broken steam shovel. I also say “Eh?” too much for her liking and here is her pet hate: I cock my eyebrow when she voices her opinions. Unbeknownst to me, our marriage has hung by a thread for years. Terrifying.
The Brigadier bellowed behind me that his young and recent wife took tremendous offence to his lying about the house in his Y-fronts. This remark stopped all conversation for a moment as we played with the image of a senior who is also the hairiest man we know. It took a few minutes of a collective staring at the bug-eyed soldier before another mem cleared his throat and said: “She does not laugh at my jokes any more.” The chap in question is an old friend of mine, James Smallpiece, who cannot be faulted in any way in this life as he is generous, pats children on the head, provides for his family and loves the club. However he cannot tell a joke to save his life. He simply stops and giggles, which signals to the rest of us that it is finished. To be frank we have always thought that Bridget his wife was just this side of a saint to put up with him for so long.
Thankfully the Brigadier burst back into the group’s consciousness by exploding that he had been first and we had not discussed his underwear problem thoroughly enough for his liking. We grasped the subject not unlike a life preserver and let Mr. Smallpiece drift away.
Copyright The Major 2014
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