I sometimes think that we at the club (the home of homes) should do away with the large memorial grandfather clock that sits on the grand stair landing. After all, if there was ever a group that did not want to hear the passing of time, it would be the denizens of this city sanctuary. All too soon, many of us will have our day in the high court before St. Peter to explain about the time, in my case, that I stole my younger brother’s marbles (cats-eyes) or looted my sister’s Halloween takings, so I find the ticking unsettling and wish it elsewhere. There is little chance of that, one can be sure, for it was donated by some forgotten robber baron with the very stringent covenant that it be placed where it is. Time is not just passing but rather sprinting along, and there are many examples around me. Fruity Metcalf, the present president of the club, was once the chairman of one of the larger banks in this great country of ours. After a lifetime’s labour of separating widows and orphans from their few pennies, he retired to this jewel by the sea. He was known as a great wit and raconteur, with one of the keenest minds ever witnessed by the Sharp Practices Police of several stock exchanges. Upon his arrival on our shores, he was quickly nominated and seconded for his present position as our dear leader. He has captained us over many troubled waters. However of late, we have witnessed the poor chap’s wheels coming off.
Not long ago Fruity, as was his wont, would after a leisurely lunch ascend in the ancient club elevator to the steam room on the third floor for a sort of post food-outrage cleansing. This consisted of turning the thermostat to the point of no return, forcing other club mems to run for their lives, with many of the more hirsute fleeing with smoking backs and legs. After an amount of time that would have raised eyebrows amongst a throng of lobsters, Fruity would emerge looking not unlike a newly cooked brick.
Well, most children and all mothers will tell you that too much of a good thing and look out! He would then gingerly dress, first pulling on his socks with their old-fashioned suspenders, and going from there, so to speak. Fruity now began to lose the plot and not just a little bit, as he might have pushed the part of Abednego beyond its limit. We, far below the building storm, were taking our usual coffee in the reading room and discussing the day’s events. It was also whist day in the women’s section, who now take over the dining room for the afternoon games as soon as the tables have been cleared of the flotsam from lunch. The scene was set as Mrs. ffrangington-Davis sat down at Table 3 facing the elevator doors, which now opened. Out stepped Fruity in his highly shone shoes with his socks neatly suspendered and nothing else. Mrs. ffrangington-Davis, to give her her due, said, “How bohemian!” just before Mrs. Hynde-Quarters slid from her chair, joined immediately by several other innocent and delicate players. There stood Fruity as the Lord made him, absolutely naked. As most of you will agree, chaps our age look best the more we cover up, now forever proven (QED) by this not at all pleasant sight. We sprang like old rabbits to cover dear confused Fruity, who smiled patiently throughout, and we realized another friend had left us as the great clock ticks on.
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