I awoke from my bed of joy with the whole world shouting "Marmalade!" and so I tootled down to the kitchen. In order to do so, I had to aim a slipper at the short ribs of one of my wife's fearful cats, that Beelzebub Bertram. Having lathered on the Seville Orange and procured nourishing tea, I bounded from my pile in Rockland and strode toward the club, the home of homes, where all things sane awaited the arrival of my sensible street shoes.
Deeply into my beloved sa国际传媒, I felt a presence and looked up kindly as one does when a fellow traveller appears. To my delight, it was none other than Jimmy Malpractice, a retired doctor known for his humour and soft hands. However, unlike your Major he seemed reticent about joining in the songbird's trillings that flowed from yours truly in this diamond by the sea.
Early drinks were ordered and I turned the full Smythe-Brown charm in his direction. The gist of the matter was that his rather strong-willed wife had accepted an invitation to a Thanksgiving dinner given by a new mem named Mrs. June Circumference, apparently a well-known naturalist who had recently moved to our little paradise. His wife Petronella had, at the last moment, decided to take part in a march upon the provincial legislature about the need to save the up-Island bunny and its habitat. We silently brooded that perhaps there was an abundance of bunnies, up-Island or not, and as for habitat, they seemed to frolic anywhere convenient.
The upshot was that Jimmy had been ordered to attend said dinner by Petronella, but he knew nothing of naturalists. My eyes bugged as I tried to wrestle this heavyweight dilemma into submission. Suddenly, my mind spit out the solution: I volunteered to accompany my friend to the celebration after we boned up on HMS Beagle et al.
On the night in question, we made our way up the long driveway leading to Mrs. Circumference's mansion.
Upon ringing the bell, there was Mrs. Circumference, a large woman in the club sense, full but with the faint outline of a once fine figure.
What was odd was that she seemed to be wearing what looked like a large towel, perhaps another indication that fashion had sidestepped Victoria. She whisked us in to dinner where the usual suspects sat: A bishop, a pol, several heavily tenured professors and a chamber of commerce chappy.
Her tiny husband sat at the head of the table with his head barely above the linen. He seemed not to be wearing a shirt; his tiny furry shoulders appeared briefly behind the salt. It was puzzling -- he kept asking everyone if they weren't too hot, at which we tittered politely. Suddenly the kitchen door was flung open. Through it appeared a naked and very bitter butler holding the cranberry bowl while clutching himself with a tea towel, followed by the fulsome and now equally naked Mrs. Circumference with the turkey.
This sent the politician, who normally never missed a free meal, running for the door claiming that he had a small library to open, but one clapping professor of new media started to disrobe eagerly just before he was concussed by his wife with a large platter. Mrs. Circumference leaned heavily over the bishop, who was feverishly reciting an inspiring psalm, and wondered if he would not get more comfortable, which made him weep.
By this time most of us were retrieving our coats from the now mumbling butler, with Jimmy openly laughing about the world of naturalist seniors. Who says life is over at 75, eh?
Happy Thanksgiving.
