I sometimes think that life is along the line of when one first opens a new bottle of horseradish. The first sniff is so much better than the last, don’t you think? To me at least there is nothing like the anticipation of that glorious cap coming off and the subsequent slap to the old nostrils, followed by a Niagara of tears. Millennia of hard gained knowledge squeezed into that small bottle, all there to sing hosannas to overdone Roast Beef. My life is but singing hosannas to my wife Kitty. The marriage got off to a marvelous start even after I discovered that well kept secret, women shave. That really put me off my oatmeal when that popped up I can tell you, I had thought they were all spice and everything nice. When I recovered consciousness, life took on a more gentle hue in our voyage together of discovery. We produced the mandatory ungrateful offspring, and I read the newspapers deeply, cheerfully at my club. Life seemed full and worry free.
However our greatest test was the hitherto unseen speed bump of the cats, Pericles and Bertram, two of Stalin’s former comrades that had somehow escaped liquidation in the show trials of the 30’s . From the moment they appeared the milk went sour. You might think I am being wildly metaphorical but no, I caught them several times feeding at my not yet finished cereal bowl and the milk was then sour indeed. I am normally a meek man, prone to letting lie if you know what I mean, but the assault upon my household when these two monsters arrived forced our lovely marriage into the corner for a short frank chat. Did I mention that my Kitty is not a pacifist and has an enviable forearm, in short she is not to be trifled with? The cats remain to this day as most of you know. I am at least bucked up by the fact there are others amongst us who have been roughly coaxed into doing their wife’s bidding.
I recall a certain colonel who arrived home to find that his spouse had decided after no previous hint, to tackle the violin as an instrument of choice for a hobby to stave off dementia. The noise was so appalling that it triggered dementia in the colonel instead. It is I am told very heartrending to watch him shouting at a coat rack while his frightful wife and her fiddle give off noises not unlike a small car riding on it’s rims. Their neighbours are becoming uncharitable on the subject of “Next-door Noise”.
Another chap did not like sunny climes as they were very disagreeable to his sensitive skin. His new wife (very rash late in life marriage) was a travel writer who specialized in “Fun spots near the equator”. In spite of his alarm she simply told him that he was a worry-wort and was to travel as her companion or what was the point of the marriage? She had him there and being very mild mannered like the rest of us, he went into the furnace optimistically and in love. The next time we saw him he resembled a very boiled ham with burnt lips encircling a rictus grin. He claimed to becoming used to the microwave life that he and his current wife led, although he did whisper something concerning being hidden in my garden shed as their next trip included the Sahara.
The Brigadier has always been a cross to bear here at the club, proven I am afraid by his arrest yesterday. He was visited by the constables for shouting “Bosoms, Bosoms” from the club’s front steps for no discernible reason. It appears that tourists from Seattle took exception to an old man and colourful language. His wife has declined bail. One never knows what goes on behind the closed doors of a marriage or sometimes even the club.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2014
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