1009 Major’s Corner (Major’s Corner for publication Oct. 9, 2011)
Love is a great expense, but there is really no way to avoid it, I am afraid. Just buy but a few pleasant items for Fluffy or Rex at your local pet store and the term “Beggary” will flit across your mind at the cash register. When an innocent shopper enquires how much the dullish chain in the corner might be, the oily little salesman responds: “$1,100, sir,” with a straight face. There are then two choices facing the beet red customer: Either quickly remove your regimental belt and flog him on the spot, shouting “Extortion!” or say “teh heh” and buy it. Many of my friends are in the second category, for there is something about a wet nose and furry ears that turns captains of industry into jabbering fools.
As I was forced as a boy to escort girls with the aforementioned wet noses and furry ears, generally of the so-called “blind date” variety after being told “she has a grand personality,” those characteristics hold no romance for me. My wife Kitty, whom I love a great deal and who has no moustache to speak of, is, I am afraid, deeply involved with her cats Pericles and Bertram. Heed me when I say there is nothing she will not do for those hounds of hell. I still tremble all over at the memory of the busy-body vet pointing out a lump on Bertram’s tummy to my weeping wife. After nearly a week of doctor visits and thousands down the drain, the bloody cat threw up a small rubber toy and then had the gall to enquire if there would be an early dinner. If I had not been held down by my wife and our cook, Mrs. Bleak, I would have given that damned Bertram a real lump I can tell you. I retired to my upstairs study still shouting.
There is a chap at the club who, after his wife of many years passed away, was given a trip to the southern hemisphere by his concerned children. The tricky bit was when he returned. Charles Harmonious, for that is his name, was wearing a flamboyant sarong in the company of a new wife, Koko. He was several times refused entry to the club as sarongs (even khaki) are clearly outside any known dress code, much less the club’s. My late father had a motto for world travelers: “Don’t do it.” Charles proved his point I am afraid with a tattoo on his cheek that was some sort of calendar. On top of that, his recently acquired wife let it be known to his goggling children that a new will was on the table, so to speak.
Lawyers around the club began to rub their hands together in anticipation of high fees in a long-running battle, a perfect formula for the legal trade. In the first year, Koko invited her mother and three vicious sisters whom she said would cook all meals in the future meaning his faithful cook of the past twenty years was for the sack. Charley always had a reasonable-sized maison but now I am reliably informed that it has taken on the look of an open kitchen, with more room needed for the restless livestock. Heavy South Sea spices have invaded his rather upscale neighbourhood, to the extent that the local dogs have become maddened because they cannot locate previously buried bones and the entire squirrel population has taken to its collective bed in despair of the coming winter.
I am happy to report that most of the clubmen I play about with are content to pay for the wants of their spouses as it seems to buy peace and quiet about the home, as long as one can afford it. My job is to stay away from the cats and I am good at it.
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