Friday, 5 August 2016
In which One is bitter...
'It could have happened to anyone,' appealed One.
'No! It fecking couldn't!' exclaimed the Admiral as One dabbed at the chiffon skirt of One's Norman Hartnell ball gown.
'Why don't you look at what you're doing, you clumsy great Bison,' continued he as he tip toed through the broken glass to assist One, 'Now, you'll have to change. You can't turn up at the Bowling Club for an evening of 'Sing-a-long-a-Snorkers' looking like that!
'Sing-a-long-a-Snorkers,' Dear Reader is the highlight of the month, when a Snorker Supper is held following a sing song during which the more musical of the old codgers sport instruments various and serenade the seniors who can still hear out of one ear or the other.
The Admiral does a turn on his ukulele with a selection of George Formby numbers: obv 'Leaning on a Lamp post,' which it has to be said doesn't have quite the same resonance when performed from a commode.
Bless the old stick, though, he turns up regular as a morning dump following his Fybogel and turns the heads of the more mobile widows who constantly trawl the assembled company looking for an unattached gentleman with an index linked pension.
For, as we know, Dear Reader, a gentleman in possession of a large fortune is in need of a wife.
'How did One get drawn into this life of revelling?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader, 'why it seems only yesterday that you lived in Hampstead village and drove around in a Bentley.'
Yes, doesn't it just, but an evening out at the opera on a lawn at Kenwood, supping Bolly from a cut glass flute and nibbling on a caviar laden blini is but a million miles away Dear Reader.
How times change. Not that One is unhappy, oh no. One is quite content to spend the day delivering One's charges to lunch at locations various, taking them for massages/relaxing soaks in spas/shopping for clothes/horse riding/swimming etc.
Yes, Dear Reader, it is a mark of a civilised society that we cosset the less fortunate.
Do you know anyone who goes out to eat at least three times a week? I fecking don't!
Then, home to swat flies with an iPad Air, or to hurtle their new clothing out of an upstairs window in the rain.
An interesting use of tax payers money, don't you think?
Then, home to the Underground Lair, for an exhausted One, to make ready for a snorker supper and to empty the Admiral's commode.
Bitter? Who? Moi?