#MajorsCorner #PetrifiedForest #WilliamTheWeasel #Humour

Occasionally someone will disparagingly call the senior mems by a name they think is slightly amusing, the latest being “the Petrified Forest.” Ha ha. Do we all feel better now? How childish.
Those of us who chose to spend our still sane years in the heart of the Home of Homes, that is the senior reading room, should be left alone. We do no harm as far as I can see, outside of the Brigadier, of course, and he is simply living in his own world.
Petrified forests refer to trees that have turned into stone through a combination of climate and age, period. What has this to do with the residents of the senior reading room at the club? Are they saying that we don’t move a great deal?
Several years ago, one Jody “the Body” McFeely, a visiting physical trainer, suggested that we elderly types should incorporate into our busy day of reading a short program of exercises while seated in our favourite wing-backs. We accepted after Jody touched our knees, ankles and backsides in a state of enthusiasm. It was noted by several of the touchees that it had been a long time since someone had volunteered to play amongst us. We were very grateful and took up her plan immediately. 
Today, rain or shine, one can see the results, for at 11 o’clock sharp, all mems present will shoot their legs skyward while whispering “one.” After a moment or so the legs will return to their original position before starting over again with the hushed “two.” After 10 of those, with not a few mems showing the strain and loose shoes flying about the club, arms are raised collectively above our heads, with the almost silent “one” once more in evidence.
You take my point, I hope. Far from exhibiting inchworm behaviour, we of the club can wave down a waiter and snag an ottoman with the best of them. Let us hear no more on the subject of petrified forests, for we are made of firmer stuff. Er…better stuff.
Changing the subject, a twosome we don’t see much of anymore, Colonel deCoopers and his companion pet, William the Weasel, arrived for lunch the other day. Some back story is required, I think. The Colonel’s wife passed away a few years ago, leaving the poor chap devastated with grief. A close friend gave him an injured weasel he had found beside the highway, thinking that might ease the Colonel’s mind and alleviate his loss.
A great friendship ensued and they became inseparable. So much so that the Colonel insisted that the weasel must be allowed to accompany him into the club. Well, no animal has ever been allowed to enter the hallowed halls here except for the unfortunate Edward the VIII, who once arrived with an intoxicated harbour seal.
The club fell back on its rules of a dress code, a cowardly act, many of us felt: “The weasel must be fully clothed to sit in the senior reading room.” The Colonel immediately had appropriately sized suits made and nothing more was said on the subject, not even from the squirming president of the club, Baron de Beef.
Both of the pals were dressed as our prime minister would, shapeless suits with nondescript ties and vacant looks. They happily sat down for the club lunch.
Now the reason they may have given the club a miss lately is that William the Weasel has an uncanny sense for picking winners in the stock market, making his friend the Colonel a great deal of the lolly. This has not gone unnoticed by the slimy section of the club known as the Bum Steers: The stockbrokers. They would try to put down market charts near William so that the little fellow might point some fur at pork bellies or platinum or “sell everything!”
When the Colonel finally had to make use of the club WC while William sat contentedly in his Tory blue diaper, Jim Bucket shot over to their table shouting, “How do you like gold, my friend, or do trains take your fancy? No pipelines yet? Eh, eh?”
The startled weasel shot up into the club palm and sat shaking till his friend retrieved him. They left before the club raisin pie. Pity.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2014
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