The Major’s Corner……Club H.R.

My routine requires me to leap from my bed of pain and do health-giving exercises before my litre of orange juice. Perhaps “leap” is not the appropriate term at my time of life. If I am honest, it is not unlike a ball of pyjamas falling onto the bedroom floor. But let the record read that at least I make an effort.
Once I am ready, I do deep-knee-bends, which my wife Kitty says she cannot see. What a cheek. I feel the strain of those bends all day. Bloody woman.
In spite of these injustices, I know I am making progress in the field of elder agility, which I can see when I sprint for the club (and “sprint” is the right word, thank you). The other day I passed many people as I shot along the sidewalk towards the bay window heaven of my club and was only panting slightly when I fell into my green wingback chair, waving firmly for my first martini of the day.
Henry Endgame, who sits near my chair, has his own idea of what exercise consists of, for he arbitrarily stands up and shouts “Hey there.” I angrily questioned him about this, as it inevitably makes me lurch and spill the martini. He told me it was an effort to surprise his slumbering body and was considered a high form of activity in many circles.
I suggested that if he must shout his “Hey there,” he should do it before he jumped up as it might give us some warning of what was coming. Unfortunately he has a few followers, so after lunch the reading room is alive with stupid shouts in the middle of the traditional club slumber time.
Another subject I hesitate to delve into is the idea we know nothing about our club servants, not really. We have them vetted during the hiring phase for any history of incarceration, bad debts, suicidal tendencies or loose women. However any real understanding of their lives is thought to be in bad taste and best not looked at too diligently.
For instance Rogers, my preferred waiter and barman, appears to be walking with a limp today. Why would that be? Has the poor fellow had a fall or worse? On the other hand, would Rogers be outraged if I quizzed him too closely? You see what I mean. It is tricky.
The one thing about the club is that there is no gossip concerning staff, even Tiffany. She is, as my late father used to say, “a bit of all right.” However I think I am safe in saying no mem would bring that up, as it would be thought unseemly.
Tiffany looks after Tables 3 to 6 and is very serious about her duties. She is always pleasant and well turned out as she scurries between the memorial dining room and the kitchen, but no one knows what she is thinking, or more to the point, what she thinks of us.
Our club president, Baron de Boeuf, brought us up to date on why Rogers has a limp: Tiffany kicked him. Aha, scandal, we thought. But it was only because Rogers was blocking her exit from the kitchen while she was carrying six bowls of the club pea soup.
Rogers felt hard done by because he was listening to the sous chef’s troubles concerning a gambling problem his latest lady was having with the horses. After kicking him, Tiffany started to lament her sister’s drinking habits; apparently she felt a problem gambling with horses was beneath contempt as alcohol should be thought of as far worse.
The soup grew cold and had to be replaced, to the fury of Rudolf, our executive chef. He felt his wife’s skin rash, which caused her to look like a relative of the tomato family, was something that should be discussed.
The nearby wine steward pointed at his feet yelling that he had two toes out of alignment and no one seemed to give a damn.
By the time our president got through the list of ailments he had to deal with “below stairs,” we were cured of our collective curiosity about who did what and what they thought of us amongst the club flunkies. Best not to know, we concluded.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2016