Two Chaps Talking

My Dear Old Fruit,

Embrace Narcolepsy for it seeks only your comfort. Forty winks here and there are just the tonic for a recovering bon viveur. No matter if you're up before a room full of ingrates at your gainful, or behind the wheel of your BRG run-around. Now close your eyes, you're feeling sleepy, your eyelids are heavy, that's it, yes, let them go, relax, mmm, let the comforting darkness close in.

All the more reason for copious consumption of electric soup more like. Chap knows where he is when he's unconscious by his own hand. Are you feeling sleepy again? There you are, just rest your head, just for a moment, they won't even notice, slip into the stationery cupboard and curl yourself up into a foetal ball using your Super 150's tropical as a pillow.

Now I'll tell you about something that'll keep you awake, and without protest too. An intrepid band of fellow countrymen and I have been popping into The Russian and Turkish Baths (est. 1892) of late. Alongside bloated Russian gangsters, withered babushkas and a bewildering assortment of prime totty we've been boiled, fried, sautŽed and steamed. Imagine us all glistening prettily together in various rooms that afford different ways of cooking a chap. That's chap not chop.

Without my trusty specs I can see very little through the steam, but if I could my eyes would be wide with wonder. Clad in one's swimming cozzy one saunters from room to room, occasionally dousing oneself with a bucket of ice water or taking a plunge in a pool of same. For an extra couple of roubles a chap can be caked in Dead Sea Mud and birched by a muscle-bound Russian matron. Altogether too reminiscent of school cross-country running I swerved this particular delight.

The place is over a hundred years old, steeped in history, seedy and worn but still clean and wholesome, and littered with the fairer in various versions of scant frippery. School showers were never like this after games I can tell you. The plunge pool has many uses, and I think you know what I mean.

Of course life in the colonies isn't all wine and roses, especially when a chap needs a tune-up. Had a regular from the quack of late with the strangest results, some good, some well. You decide. First the medico decided a closer look at the ticker was required. As I was unbuttoning the Sea Island what looked like a well-lubricated 'Intruder' was thrust before me. Fearing the worst I clenched shut my eyes, turned around and thought of England. Imagine my relief when the thing was merely pointed at the offending organ from the outside. The image it generated looked like Elvis and I was convinced he'd finally been found. I insisted upon a picture to show the OB&C. You see, I said, it's not a blackened and empty cavity after all.

Went a bit downhill from there I'm afraid. Next stop was a chap who, no sooner had he shaken hands, offered me the chance to best a two foot length of Do-It-All's finest heavy-duty Easy-Coil Retractable Lawnmaster. Unable to escape I passed through the abyss and managed at close of play to assert a feeling of achievement. To which the waggish quack commended both my wit and my healthy insides. I'm told some do this voluntarily. Beggars belief.

So there we are old top. You with your head on a soft pillow, deep in slumber, dreaming of feather beds and endless lie-ins. And yours truly, an older wiser man than I was this time last week.

Sleep now, all is well.

S.

Posted by S at 06:30 PM | Permalink

Dearest Toby,

I sit, as I write these words, in our old chambers at Balliol remembering how you reclined on the divan, before the fire, cracking quail's eggs on the heel of your monogrammed silk slipper as I read you the bawdier snatches of Catullus.

Do you remember the Rector? How witty he was, at our last meeting of the Piers
Gaveston Society, brandishing the appliance like a monstrance. Sadly, he has
returned, under something of a cloud to a quieter parish. There was an 'incident' in the choir stalls at Brazenose. As the poor man strained for the high E in 'The Lamentation of the Prophet Jeremiah', there was a warm whooshing sound and the last four feet of his colon prolapsed onto the ancient boards. I suspect he has been immoderate in his appetites.

At the beginning of Michealmas term, young Hugo, (The Apollo of the Lower
Fourth) came up. Thank heavens Rupert got to him before the barmaid at the Turl. He now affects an effeminate walk which barely conceals his new found bandiness and sports a slim volume of his own verse and a satisfied smile. I would horsewhip the little bitch were it not for his dangerous intimacy with Uncle Montgomery in the Alps last season.

I passed the last weekend with Basil at his Father's estate. There is little to
report beyond the appearance of his young sister in my rooms. She had been
reading dangerous passages of lurid novels and had decided that I, trusted family friend, should initiate her into the ways of the world. She was entertaining for her freshness and quite charmingly uninhibited. I fear only for young Peregrine, her betrothed, when she begins their wedding night by bending over the ottoman and offering him the pomade jar.

I long for your return. Some of the freshmen look so..... Fresh!

Ever yours

Eustace

Posted by T at 01:56 PM | Permalink

Dear Chap,

There are times when a fellow's advanced years or hard won experience enable, nay oblige, him to offer advice to others. It is in this spirit that I write to you today, treating at length on the subject of sleep.

Are you getting enough, dear boy? Are you nestling your perfectly coiffed cranium in the cotton lawn and goosedown at precisely eleven each night? Are you, as a gentleman should, rising promptly at ten for a light breakfast before heading out to face the vicissitudes of the City.

If you're not, please do. Because, old man, nothing could be more important than sleep and it was only at four thirty this morning that I realised precisely how much of it I have squandered in a life of debauchery.

Sleep deprivation has long been used as a torture and is, I believe, outlawed by the Geneva Convention (I feel I may need to explain this to some of our American readers at some point. Some other time perhaps).

I, like you, have oft dreamed of evenings being tortured by beautiful young women, but in my fevered imaginings she was usually a six foot beauty in a leather basque, not a 48cm monster in a pink, sick-stained sleepsuit.

Never has the nacreous glow of dawn held less pleasure than when it heralds the culmination of a sleepless night entirely devoid of partying.

I understand that the cumulative effect of theta-state sleep deprivation in rats is psychosis and eventual death. It certainly makes strange thoughts run through a chap's head. Mostly, you think about how nice it would be to sleep - how, if you ever get the chance again, you are going to sleep as long and as deeply as possible - how you can't imagine ever voluntarily forgoing sleep and, if you were ever to find yourself in the position of not having a baby to look after, you'd elevate the pursuit of Morpheus to your foremost priority in all things.

I think, if some cocktail addled vixen were to offer me a fat line of Dr Chang's finest off her accommodating dŽcolletage at this very moment, I'd laugh hysterically and fall asleep.

Here's my advice to you, dear boy. Sleep now, and at every possible opportunity for the rest of your life. Even if you never have a child, you won't get enough to compensate for the sleep you'll lose if you do.

She's just dropped off.

I'm hitting the hay

T

Posted by T at 01:05 PM | Permalink

T old love,

Oof. Just back from the tropics and I'll tell you something, it bloody well Ain't Half Hot Mum. Though coming from the Mediterranean coastal town of Bournemouth I was of course well able to cope with the sun. It was with a mere vat of factor fifty that I was able to spend sometimes up to five or six consecutive minutes in the sun. The dash from my room to the bar was never so invigorating.

The island we chose for our petite sojourn is well known for its splendid cricketers and as luck would have it there was a Test Match taking place during our stay. With the world's finest cricket being played not three miles away it would have criminal not to take full advantage. So almost every day I made a point of spending several minutes with at least one eye on the telly, obviously not able to spare both for risk of losing contact with the barman.

Y'know rum punch has many medicinal benefits. Prodigious consumption leaves a chap feeling utterly delighted with the world in general and his direct company in particular. Not only that but my erstwhile city-sprint walking pace slowed down to a dawdle, the kind of speed that would get one pushed under a bus here in the bustling metrop.

We may not have ruled the waves for a while now but I don't need to tell you that the ocean is in an Englishman's blood. And camped on the island where Lord Nelson built much of his Americas fleet it was only natural that time afloat beckoned. Naturally eschewing anything motor driven I began with a one man sixteen footer that threw me at the first hard a' starboard. Who knew you had to let the bloody sail out to slow down? Must've flown fifteen feet every time that bastard flipped over.

On day two of our stay she who must be obeyed decided the board of fare at hotel number one was not up to scratch and we decamped to pastures new. The good news was that there I was able to take on a catamaran. A gentleman's conveyance and much more civilised. I also learned that wind direction has applications other than the avoidance of classroom chums who've overdone the Brussels for lunch. The only fly in this ointment was the necessity of weaving, or tacking, between razor sharp coral reefs, using for navigation only a murky green buoy the size of a rancid tennis ball that I had trouble spotting even when on top of it. But you don't grow up in the aforementioned seafaring Mediterranean port without having sailing in your blood. So with the aid of numerous tots of rum I acquitted myself adequately and lived to tell the tale.

What with our greatest Admiral being so closely associated with both the Island and various Little Unpleasantness' with our friends across the Channel M and I felt it only right to give our patronage to a bijou French restaurant called Chez Pascal. And what a splendid thing that we did. A week without posh French food is seven long and desolate days no matter where you are. The only hiccough was when M didn't finish her main course, rightly saving herself for pudding. The waiter's face fell when he saw the half-filled plate. They evidently took their food very seriously for he asked, darkly. "You didn't eat the fish, was something the matter?"

The room fell silent.

I had visions of him dragging the chef from the kitchen and holding a blade to his throat.
"Tell this miserable wretch that you won't eat his food."
"Do it! O cut my worthless throat," the chef would cry. "If I cannot create food for these people who quite fairly beat us in the Little Unpleasantness' at Trafalgar, Waterloo, Agincourt &cet then I would rather die."
"Come, come," I would say. "We're all friends now. Entente cordiale and all that. Your food was delicious, my wife merely has a small appetite and wishes to save space for what I am sure will be a monumental desert."
Thus mollified the chef would return to his lair and continue his fine work.

As it turned out we emerged unscathed and full of praise for all things Antiguan and French.

And that is how you find me; cooked to a delightful medium-rare, dawdling along at half speed, pickled in rum, and with the callused hands of a seasoned sailor, in a sea-faring way as opposed to a hello sailor way.

The sun's over the yard arm so uncork some of the Captain's reserve and rub some factor fifty in would you? There's a love.

S.

Posted by S at 03:57 PM | Permalink

Dear Chap,

You know well that there is nothing in the world more abhorrent to me than the 'Columnists' that fill our Sunday papers. Invariably their mandate to entertain is based on no more than television celebrity or being the offspring of a superannuated hack.

What is worse is that the comedic arts of pastiche, parody or even half decent written English have entirely passed these people by and we are left with their banal musings on 'The School Run in Highgate', 'Organic Food - Isn't It Scandalous', 'Television - Isn't It Pants What Thick, Poor People Watch' etc. Mainly, though, they bang on about their bloody kids.

So it's taken me a while to hit the keys about recent events. How do I write about becoming a Father without retreading the achingly dismal furrow?

Well, I can but try so here are some thoughts and observations.

We went into the birth unit after work a clear two weeks before the baby was due (please note the definite article. People who refer to the baby as 'Baby' should be strung up. It's an appalling affectation. Remind me, at some point, to rant about white, middle-class Rastafarians who refer to the Notting Hill Carnival as 'Carnival'). We were dropping in for regular checks as the Mem's blood pressure was slightly elevated (frankly, once they'd explained what was going to happen in the pre-natal classes, mine was through the roof).

They plied the cuff and then, with minimal warning told A that she shouldn't count on going home to pick up a bag and that they recommended an emergency C section. I was told, as my mouth gaped, 'You'll be a Dad in 40 minutes'.

The Birth Unit, where we spent the next five days is a wonderfully posh private hospital (thanks BUPA). There are two recommended in London. At the Portland, favoured by footballer's wives and pop stars, it is reputedly possible to order an elective Caesarian at 8 months (no stretch marks) with a tummy tuck and fanny lift thrown in. We were at St John and Elizabeth where you can give birth in a pool with candles, whale song and chanting.

No time for that. In ten minutes we were dressed like extras from ER and in an operating theatre. I'm not sure how much detail you want here but what followed was a bizarre and strangely beautiful process. The operation is done under a local anaesthetic called an epidural that prevents pain or feeling travelling up the spinal cord. Consequently I sat at a conscious A's head while the surgeons zipped her open and lifted L out. I asked her how it felt. She said she couldn't feel pain but that it felt like someone was doing the washing up in her stomach.

So now I have a daughter - who is indescribably lovely. I don't even mind the nappies and night feeds.

It is fundamentally untrue that all babies look like Winston Churchill. Mine looks like Hermann Goering - except when she is being winded, whereupon, according to her Mother, she looks like 'something you might find next to a particularly tacky garden pond - cross legged and slightly malevolent'.

She is also, much as one would expect, a totty magnet, drawing admiring stares from young women everywhere. This afternoon she even enhanced my pulling power in absentia. I had dropped in to John Lewis baby dept for a few bottle related requisites and was standing at the head of a queue of Yummie Mummies qv.

'Do you have any extra small bibs?' I asked, handsome and resplendent in my chalkstripe. There was a frisson amongst the YMs.

'She's only a few days old, you see'. Cooing noise and admiring glances.

Now was the time to bring out the magic word. Having spent the last months in the presence of broody Mothers-to-be at various classes I know its awesome power.

'She's just so tiny.' At which half the room suffered an involuntary uterine twitch and the balance surged with an almost audible hormone overload.

God I'm a bastard, but I just love it. Let me bask, at least for a while, in my Dadness. It won't last. Soon she'll be a teenager and hate me and I'll have to go to evening classes to learn how to wear a cardigan, dance embarrassingly at weddings and smell faintly of pipesmoke and wee.

It is an odd quirk of the National Health Service that, after the birth, one is visited daily by a state midwife. Both A and I had to be observed holding, changing and feeding the baby to ensure that we weren't going to drop her on her head or try to feed her a packet of microwave chips. These fearsome women have right of entry too. Ours was a splendid creature whose given name was 'Novelette'. I can only assume she had a sister named 'Pamphlet' and brother called 'Roman a clef'. Sadly she was unable to read her scales and entered into the record that L. had gained three kilograms in two days. This could have be achieved but only by force feeding her like a Strasbourg goose with lead shot and cement.

Ah well, more anon. I must get some sleep as I'm due up at sparrowfart to scrape Pamperfudge.

PS. I have installed wireless networking at the homestead. I am currently writing this while sitting up in bed but, rather scarily, you would have no idea if I was doing it while coiling one down. There. Doesn't that make you feel a little odd?

T

Posted by T at 11:51 PM | Permalink