Two Chaps Talking

M'Lud,

Six of 'em. Six lovely cold crystal inverted cones of clear liquid pleasure, that's how many I needed to verify each of your rules. From the screen to the printer I paused only to don a suitably durable splash and thorn-proof tweed and dashed to my local healthcare provider, as they say here. I slammed your instructions down before the barman and demanded he follow them to the letter, and don't bruise the gin laddie. I can confirm the wisdom of your advice and have given strict instructions to my man that henceforth it should be followed to the letter. Never let it be said that a chap's too old to learn eh?

You know those pricey baubles that one has to load up on to placate a chorus girl that he might have inadvertently compromised in the velvet-lined booth of one of Mayfair's oldest restaurants after a night with the green faerie? Well a pal of the OB&C is putting it across a purveyor of such things and while breaking bread with the pair of them I saw a troubling sight.

One of our own, at least geographically, was at the next table and I can't truly say he was one of the best. Having spent his life losing in the ring or else on the rugger field his profile was strangely reminiscent of the cliffs of our hometown, you know the ones, we used to jump off 'em and bounce down on those springy rubber plants. Well, rubber cliff face was also sporting a barnet not unlike that of Chris Tarrant in circa 1978 Tizwas and, of all things, a Hawaiian shirt.

Now never let it be said that I am intolerant, for goodness' sake the last thing on earth I want is for everyone to be the same, how on earth would we tell each other apart then? Vive la difference and all that. So far from shuddering at his other-worldly apparel I instead put it down to eccentricity and enjoyed it from afar. You see how tolerant a chap can become out here in the colonies?

Our meal progressed and, sans-vin, I arrived at it's conclusion with a crystal clear head, which is an odd experience I can tell you, though if I'm entirely honest I suppose there is a chance that last night's martinis were still lurking. Being fed into my Crombie by the smiling hostess the Chris Tarrant haired welterweight prop forward suddenly appeared before me. Come to say hello to a fellow Englishman I assumed, not the first time it's happened and not always entirely unwelcome, though not to be encouraged as a rule.

'Wasswiva trews?' he blurted.
I smiled benevolently, he'd evidently lunched rather well and was struggling as I had the previous night. 'I beg your pardon,' I offered, smiling and making ready to shake his enormous paw.
'Wasswiva trews,' he repeated and pointed his blunt finger at my Blackwatch flat-fronts.
Being a chilly day I'd combined a rather racy black roll-neck with the aforementioned trousers and a pair of heavy head-kicking black brogues, I lacked only the solid apple wood shaft of a Jas. Smith brolly, but it hadn't looked like rain.
So he was complimenting me on my attire, how kind. I smiled in a friendly fashion and once more went to offer my hand.
He continued, 'Y'English arencha? Wasswive trews, y'no'Scotch areya?'

It was at this point that it occurred to me that he was not smiling and while his speech wasn't outwardly aggressive there was no mistaking the lack of friendly bonhomie. A different kind of response was called for.

Being snugly inside my velvet-collared black beauty I was at my most imperious. My eyes may have narrowed just a touch, my lip may have curled imperceptibly, even my shoulders may have squared up to the oaf. I began the slow, silent decent of my withering gaze. Starting at his yellow thatch, down his off-piste visage, pausing for a split-second at his multi-coloured silky abhoration I finally arrived at his 'trousers' which were - brace yourself old friend - of linen. Linen, at this time of year, I ask you. The corners of my mouth twitched. I returned my gaze to his gurning boat-race and, with scant regard for his safety, let him have the full raised eyebrow.

I don't need to tell you that a gentleman doesn't gloat over his vanquished foe. I swept majestically from the restaurant leaving a stunned silence and a chap who'll not soon forget his lesson. Far from ruining his vacance I hope to have taught him a valuable lesson.

S'funny but the use of one's raiment has been on my mind lately, but then when isn't it I suppose. Only yesterday I sallied forth with the usual accoutrements for a day's promenade. Being a rather sunny day, and the last of such that we are to expect for some while I gather, I chose to take with me a paperback to while away a dozy afternoon. All well and good, but the question is; where to put the book when you're not actually reading it? Under normal circ's you might expect one's man to carry it. Well yes, but what if he's off searching for baubles to placate the previously alluded to chorus girl? You see my predicament; to pocket or not to pocket?

When carrying a Moroccan bound volume of Yeats it is one's duty to clutch it before one as badge of honour. Of course. But a worn paperback from your man JPD? Credible certainly but worth clutching before you? I wondered whether one could justifiably disturb the line of ones suit by popping the thing in one's pocket?

And do you know I think one can. And I did. And it's a strange feeling I can tell you, showing wanton disregard for the line of one's suit coat. Having through the years thrown away a small fortune in possessions to ensure the correct line there is a certain sense of liberty in the worn edge of a classic poking out for all to see. Ensuring that the book is of the correct sort I highly recommend it as an experience. I'm now toying with the idea of carrying my flask in my coat rather than hip pocket. Is this evolution d'you think?

And so to close old love here's a quick mention for a chap on the radio who rather embodied the spirit that I cling to over here. I know that the ladies and gentlemen of the fourth estate are usually to be distrusted and occasionally horse-whipped if they're in the employ of a private corporation, especially if owned by Americans or that ex-Australian. Anyway this chap worked for our own beloved Beeb and he'd just been bombed by 'friendly fire' (can you imagine anything less 'friendly' than being bombed?). He was reporting via satelite telephone on the outrage and carnage and while doing so someone interrupted him to point out that he was himself bleeding. Oh is that all?, he said, I thought you were going to stop me reporting. Whether a minor injury or not he seemed to encapsulate a certain spirit of which we see little in these times.

Soon may it return.

Salaam my friend,

S