One always wants to be loved, especially at one’s club – only natural, one supposes. However I feel I have entered the nirvana of being needed. Word has for some time circulated that mems with a problem can look forward to my 10 o’clock “advice” chats in the senior reading room every Wednesday. These days the lineup is so long it is colloquially referred to as the queue.
When I first was asked to advise on a matter or two by the odd mem, there would be weeks of indifference before the next bit of wisdom was required. Not now. Not only is there a queue every Wednesday morning by 9:30 a.m., but some anxious mems beg for attention on Mondays and Tuesdays. However one must be strong and stick to one’s guns, what? It is Wednesday or nothing! I mean I do have a life.
If I am honest I enjoy it enormously, as the lessons I have acquired during my long life appear to soothe if not always solve the problems of my trembling club colleagues. My reputation is burnished continuously around the old edifice, and gifts of martinis do not go unappreciated.
By the end of these sessions after a strict two hours, I am a little worse for wear after all the grateful tributes, and I look upon the club lunch as a medical necessity. Nothing like well-done roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, lashings of HP sauce and green peas, followed by the de rigueur raisin pie. Plus wine, of course.
I am slightly surprised at how far I have come in the counselling field, especially after the debacle of my first session. It involved the Brigadier, the club cross to bear, I am afraid. He was my first customer, and I am pleased and just a bit mystified that anyone after that was interested in what I had to say. His cris de coeur was that after taking the delightful Constance as his fourth wife, he discovered the she expected a great deal of intimacy as she was still only in her late 40s while he had just jumped the fence at the 80 mark. The man was a ghastly pale shade from exertion and beginning to wobble when he attempted to walk. It could not last.
His question: Should he use the advertised pharmaceuticals to give him a boost so to speak, and these are his words, “when she wants to do the business?” I could see nothing wrong with such a plan as long as his doctor agreed, and off he went. Naturally when dealing with that mad man, things could only go wrong.
Having acquired the little blue pills and attended to his duties, his wife Constance not unnaturally wanted more and soon. So the old soldier began to pick up the pace a bit and take a pill every day, which most definitely was not what the doctor ordered. The astonished Constance could be seen floating about the club whispering naughty stories in the ears of the envious club matrons, one of whom is my wife. The crisis came when we innocent mems, content amongst our friends and newspapers, were abruptly asked to also “do the business,” sometimes, and this will no doubt shock you, during the day, for heaven’s sake.
This sort of thing is not good for the heartbeat of a club and specifically our club, as the mems are getting on and should not be expected to rally round the flag pretending to be young whenever the distaff side of the club decide we should.
Many of us became afraid to go there, as the wives had developed lean and hungry looks, which were not pleasant because you cannot concentrate on the magazine articles while surrounded by lurking females. I was being accused of ruining our oasis, which I thought was unfair, but still it hurt.
Thankfully all blew up when the Brigadier lost count of how many pills he had downed one day. He thought only one had been consumed after breakfast, but he had been attacked earlier by Constance so had to drink from his toothbrush glass, a pill from the secret trove tucked into his shaving gear. Here is where I decided enough was enough and slipped him another in his gin and tonic just before lunch.
To be fair I did not know he had already taken two, but it worked out anyway. Suddenly he stood up and shouted “Oh boy!” then began to run around the startled mems’ tables, grinning madly. Also, we all heard what sounded like a balloon stretching below his belt and the Brigadier’s face became blotchy and red hued. He sat back down and turned into what can only be described as a human tripod, which is unacceptable during a club lunch.
Two waiters put him behind the palm, where he peered cross-eyed back at us, particularly at the women. It took a few days for the man to stop smiling, but eventually the club returned to normal and my queue began in earnest. Thankfully the women returned to their charities etc.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2015
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