Milton, a man who spoke 10 languages, wrote something about revenge and immortal hate. Having feelings along those lines as I do, I will not be attending my club, the Home of Homes, today.
To be turned on, not to say ridiculed, by my fellow mems is too much. I shall not cross its threshold until some pretty sturdy apologies are doled out to yours truly, and it had better happen soon, because I managed to purloin the wine cellar keys on my fast-paced departure. None of your Malbec until the Major gets satisfaction.
You would be right to ask what has stretched my well-known benign outlook on life to the tautness now achieved. It was Charade Night at the club yesterday evening.
I must try to relax, as my blood pressure is hitting levels not thought possible by the most forward-thinking medical minds. Breathe, you fool, breathe. I shall have a butter tart to calm down…. There, better.
We had all gathered to play a round or two of our favourite game at the club, now that the politically correct amongst us had banned “Toss the Waiter.” The management claimed it was highly prejudicial to the underclasses and besides women could not play it, since who besides Mrs. Hynde-Quarters could lift a flunky? So charades it was.
We chose teams before the Brigadier came back from the WC. That eliminated him for the first three games at least, which brought a slow boil from the old soldier. But he is so tedious in these things, don’t you think?
I was elected to go first by my group, which I thought was a splendid compliment. Our opponents were led by someone who looked like my old friend George Smallpiece, but he appeared to have a lean and hungry look, perhaps brought on by the beating he took from the mems last week.
He had been given “The Titanic,” and it was his undoing. His endless rolling around on the floor pretending to be hit by the club chesterfield produced only blank stares from his team. So in desperation, George began furiously pointing at Mrs. Hynde-Quarters’s chest and miming “first three letters.” When the lady in question figured out what he was going on about, she gave him a very sore ear, which still seemed a little red even after a week.
I opened the piece of paper George handed me and felt weak at the knees. It read “Encyclopaedia Britannica.”
Now Titanic was a walk in the park compared to this. George snickered, calling me a coward who did nothing to help him in his throes last week, so there.
I hurriedly ordered a martini and rubbed my temples. Perhaps I could take a page from George’s playbook and lead the players by starting another word and then merging it into the name in question.
A Smythe-Brown does not run away. Our family fell at Waterloo, for heaven’s sake. Mostly in the catering corps, where a relative of mine kept stirring the gravy after being told to get down.
I brilliantly decided to take the word “encephalitis,” which as you no doubt know infects the brain through flying bugs, plus it has the same first three letters as my target. I started to hit invisible mosquitoes in the air by slapping my hands together and showing pain. Then I scratched my arms, while the fools on my team shouted “bedlam” and “bad boy!” The other team simply roared with laughter.
In my extremis as time was running out I thought of something any idiot would understand. I stood on my head against the wall, and rubbed my head as if it were swelling; I actually think it was swelling by then anyway. Now my team bellowed “circus” and “Siamese twins.”
I stood up, pointed at George and told everyone what an impossible phrase I had been given. I said I thought there must be a rule against stupid subjects such as this. Then the unthinkable happened. Everyone turned against me, even my own team, which did not like being referred to as a collective imbecile, and I was asked to leave the club as a bad sport.
I am not happy about this. However about now they are trying to break into the wine cellar. I hear my phone ringing. Let them wait. No, I mean it.
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Martine
Brilliant as usual. Remind me not to be your partner when we play charades next.