#MajorsCorner #ReggieReturns #Humour

Oh Lord, Reggie has returned. I am not sure loyal readers will remember my wife’s brother, Reginald Pull-Over. A greater blot on the escutcheon is almost unthinkable, but there he was, sitting in our living room, grinning inanely at me.
His crimes are many, starting with the fact that he has never and I repeat never held a job for more than a few days. This man is the poster child for the old saying “You can pick your friends but not your relatives.”
He once lived with us for four years, and the strain on our marriage was palpable. During that torture, he would appear at my club and sign endless chits, using my name and number. He made friends among the lower orders of Victoria and then would bring them to the home of homes and get absolutely legless, causing chaos throughout the building. My monthly club bill shot through the roof, while I complained vigorously to my tight-lipped wife to no avail.
What finally did him in as far as Kitty was concerned was the fact that he physically attacked her great friend Mrs. ffrangington-Davis during a ladies’ luncheon. Reggie was at a table by himself near the club palm at the far end of the great dining room – in other words well out of the way, as his eating habits were known to be unspeakable.
He was as usual well into his cups when he noticed his sister and her friends being seated. He staggered to his feet and navigated his way slowly between the other tables towards the little gathering, all the while carrying his wine glass, which was pretty shocking in and of itself.
“Hi Sis,” he burbled as he held onto a passing waiter for balance.
“Now, Reggie,” she hurriedly said, but it was too late, for Reggie was leering at the still striking (for an 80-year old) Mrs. ffrangington-Davis. He then tried to lift her tweed skirt, saying,
“And what is under here?”
The woman in question took tremendous umbrage to what Reggie later claimed was just a friendly gesture and brained him with the large pepper shaker that the passing waiter was holding.
“Sweet Jesus, she loves me” was all Reggie could say as he slipped into unconsciousness. He left our home by that weekend and blessed peace returned to the Smythe-Brown maison.

However just when life was strutting along as it should, Reggie returned, telling his gullible sister that he had a job at last. My wife was over the moon and criticized me for always being down on him.
“What about Mrs. ffrangington-Davis, that was not a mirage, you know,” I squeaked in the face of the blatant unfairness of it all. But no, it was me apparently who had driven poor Reggie to become unhinged that particular time. My mood was dark, I can tell you, and I would have kicked both of my wife’s cats, Pericles and Bertram, had they not sensed my state of mind and given me a clear path. I went up to my study to mope, and I mean mope with bells on.
I need not have worried about Reggie, of course, because he lost his job as a greeter at one of those superstores we are all compelled to shop at occasionally. And he lost it on the second day, which must be some sort of record, even for Victoria.
The story we got was that the second afternoon at the place of his employment, there was some sort of Italian cooking display called La Dolce Vita alfa Victoria which involved a great deal of liquor.
It seems that Reggie and a few of his new friends, namely Charles from Cheese and Shuster from Shoes, snuck over to the cooking display between shows and purloined the nine bottles of very poor Chianti, which they consumed during their lunch break. Life took on a new hue for the boys after their food-less meal; they were full of not only bad wine but also enormous amounts of bonhomie.
The results began to appear first in the women’s shoe department, when a 200-pound policewoman noticed our friend Shuster was kissing her feet. This did not go down well with the constable. She immediately handcuffed the shocked salesman, who had been thinking he might be in line for employee of the month if not year.
All they heard from Charles was that “Cheese can bung you up for a long time, so please consult with a physician before buying Gouda or the like.” He was also naked while wearing his net hat which is a sanitary outrage.
However Reggie apparently took the cake at his front entrance “greeter” position. Out of the blue he started to shout that support hose was anti-feminine and was no longer allowed on the premises. Then he knelt and started to roll down stockings worn by a few screaming woman before he was finally driven over by two elderly sisters on scooters.
He made the papers this morning, which I had to point to during breakfast with my wife Kitty. There was Reggie holding a thick stocking while sitting in a paddy wagon behind which one could see the beet-red store manager who had so mistakenly hired him.
Reggie will leave as soon as Kitty can get him released. Peace reigns again.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2015