We never know what this trip and fall life holds for us, or what snake in the bed is even now curling around our toes. A few weeks ago the club put on one of those dratted soirees where everyone is expected to show up as a sign of solidarity. Meaningless tripe, I know, but there it is. Kitty took me by the ear, the one that had not fully healed from the last time, if anyone cares, and off we went. The title of the night in question was: “What If Your True Love Is Choking?” The Brigadier was heard to say earlier in the week, “So what?” which apparently got back to his wife. When he appeared at the event he was wearing a shiner on his right eye while the nervous left one avoided our smiling looks.
After the life-giving martini, a doctor appeared, one who looked too young to shave, as they all do these days. In his squeaky voice he took us through horrifying situations that would have dreadful results unless we learned the Heimlich manoeuvre and other rot. I understand these are marvellous discoveries, but taking me away from my roast beef dinner and raisin pie is a bit much.
Then the little medicine man chirped up about having a “little mouth to mouth” practice before we called it a night. Many of the male mems started to move towards the double door as images of Mrs. ffrangington-Davis and Mrs. Hynde-Quarters began to rise up in our shocked minds. Then the wee doctor said: “Mrs. Dawn Crackenbury has graciously consented to play the victim tonight.” There was the sound of large black oxfords squealing as the slow male stampede put the brakes on, for Mrs. Crackenbury was an entirely other kettle of fish. She had recently been voted the club’s “Yippee Woman” of the last half century and could still make the sap rise in the red-blooded senior mems still with us. She is a slowly aging fertility goddess with all the bumps and turns still in the right places. Several dozen male jaws swung open in awe. Mr. Crackenbury, who had been struck dumb a few years before, did not seem happy at the popularity of this event and started waving his arms and making tugboat noises. Kind hands took him away for a visit to our legendary wine cellar, but he was visibly unsettled.
The doctor instructed us to come up behind Mrs. C, place our arms around her middle and give a sharp jerk or two, whereby an imaginary stuck carrot should shoot out from her mouth. I have to report that loose hands seemed to waver around the woman’s ample bosom a little too freely for the female mems. Shouts of “Shame!” and “Stop it” rang about the senior reading room. The lineup to Mrs. Crackenbury wound around the memorial couch twice, with Mrs. C in a state of open euphoria, having lost all sense of decorum. I gave up my place in the queue once Kitty flung a glance at me, but one or two chaps were going for seconds.
The “mouth to mouth” part was eagerly awaited, and dear Mrs. C appeared willing, however the enthusiasm soon disappeared from the chaps when the doctor insisted that a pair of false lips be put on the patient’s mouth. It made the poor woman appear as if she had been struck in the lips with a two by four – Botox gone virile. The evening dissolved shortly afterwards when our lovely but by now disinclined volunteer went looking for her husband below decks, presumably guzzling the club Gewurztraminer.
The drive home was strained. Hell awaited me, for no sooner had we reached our house when the cook, Mrs. Bleak, informed us that one of the cats (Bertram) fell into her bathtub and appeared dead. Before I could leg it Kitty grabbed my arm and announced I would give the kiss of life. I don’t think I will ever forget the feel or taste of those furry, wet, awful lips. It lives.
Where is my medal? My gong?
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