#majorscorner #club session #humour #huffingtonpost Oct 18 2014

My Wednesday morning “marital advice” sessions have picked up speed, or as my grandsons might say, “gone viral, dude.” All of that is merely to say they are well attended. In fact there are usually three or four mems sitting near my wingback chair, waiting for me to slither in, with several others eyeing the whole thing with interest. They appear to be a hit.
However that success means I can never roll over and go back to sleep on Wednesdays like most retirees, awaiting my second cup of morning tea. No more wandering around the house, idly kicking a cat while considering the far-off lunch at the home of homes.
Now if I am not at my perch in the senior reading room by 10 bells, a club flunky calls my house inquiring as to why I am not there. But these are the problems of all successful men, sigh.
Last week, the first to seek out my thoughts was Mr. Smallpiece, a man of enormous means and a somewhat smaller mind. He held my wrist solidly with need in his eyes, then opened and closed his mouth wordlessly several times before finally saying:
“It is too much, don’t you agree?”
After goggling at him for a moment or two, I announced that I was not to be trifled with, and I put some mustard on it, I can tell you. I am there to assist, not to play guessing games, what? After what seemed an eon, he disclosed the problem, or as they say in New Speak: The Issue.
His grown-up daughter, husband and three children are returning to live at home in order to save for a house of their own. Their savings to date: $85. Which means a lifetime of living in the basement.
I have no patience with this, and advised that he point out to them that they could stay for a month and then go and rent somewhere, or he would put the house up for sale. When you reach your late 30s, unless a plague visits, the family house is not a convenience. Mr. Smallpiece gave me a winning smile and strode off to victory.
Unfortunately my next visitor was the Brigadier, panting with emotion. I suspected by the looks among my fellow club mems that he had jumped the queue, but what could any of us do?
“Well?” I said, not best pleased at the sight of the overexcited member. The chap ripped into his wife because he thinks she is having an affair of the heart with the Chinese gardener. The proof: They were always talking together and the man of the earth grinned incessantly at him.
I took an enormous draught of my martini and then waved for another on the Brigadier’s chit. The man was mad, of course, but I needed time to settle my mind as this cri du coeur had got the attention of more than my small clientele. Several far-away chairs now contained interested mems. I would have to make a Solomon-like judgment to re-establish my bona fides.
You remember the famous decision of King Solomon, don’t you? It happened when two women both claimed a child as their own. After listening to each, Solomon announced that he would have the child cut in half because no other decision was possible. One of the mothers agreed while the other, crying, said no, and withdrew from the dispute. Solomon determined that the mother who withdrew was the real mother.
In the case of the grinning gardener, I determined that he was just happy to have immigrated to this country with his family, and as the lady of the house was in charge of the vast gardens, they naturally would converse often.
I was almost carried from the room in celebration, for which I blushed modestly, while the ungrateful Brigadier kept shouting: “Wait a minute, is that it!”
Perhaps a close call, as I have no idea what the real answer was. How could one? I just felt the need for a quick exit at the top of my game.

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