By popular demand, here is the expanded version of weirdness point 3 below. The Chambers that I am member of was founded by a former Lord Chancellor. You may know him as a renonwed expert on flock wallpaper (to any Americans reading, bear with me here). One of his pupils, and another member of chambers got himself elected PM. To fox google I will refer to him hereinafter (a good 3 dollar lawyer word that) as Mr Anthony Blah (or “AB”).
Let me make it clear from the outset that he went off into politics about 4 years before I joined so I do not claim that AB and I are blood brothers and homies. He wouldn’t recognise me if I emerged from his U-Bend singing an aria. Shortly after his election he held a party at Chequers, the Prime-Ministerial country residence, he invited the whole of Chambers. That is how we came to be sat in a coach, each of us with our spouses and everyone dressed to the nines as armed police pushed mirrors under the chassis to check for bombs. Chequers is magnificent. It is somehow grand and intimate in equal measure. It was balmy weather and we stood in a twighlight breeze sipping at small drinks and looking forward to the evening.
AB had a word with everyone. As he shook my hand I asked “so what have you been up to since you left Chambers?” As he is a prince amongst men he did not kick me sharply in the nuts or have me shot as my feeble wit deserved. Instead, he laughed and said graciously “Oh you know, this and that”. It was my wife who swung her party shoe with emasculatory intent and later begged the armed police to mow me down.
Feeling in need of preserving my privates further from the penal intent of my mortified wife I made to hide in the lavatory. I was quickly lost. A figure emerged from a bush. It was a 6 foot tall Wren (a female naval officer) with her golden hair tucked beneath her uniform cap. Dressed in a lice ridden greatcoat and carrying a bottle of Bucky she would have been eye-meltingly good-looking. However, and this is where the fantasy kicks in … well … a woman in a uniform. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” she asked. Fortunately my mouth had gone completely dry in an instant so I could not inadvertently utter any of the things that sprang to mind at that moment. My sub-conscious decided that the best way to get me away from the skin-crisping radiance of the woman and protect me from lustful thoughts would be for me to mime needing the lavatory. What can I tell you? I was unhinged.
She pointed to a door into the house and I made my way there only to find another officer, this time a Waf, with the biggest and brownest eyes I have ever seen on anything that wasn’t cattle, proferring a bottle of champagne and asking if there was anything I needed. My options seemed to be to burst into tears or just start running. I mumbled “toilet” and tried to walk away with a saunter that made me look like a comdey drunk. She clacked off across the tiles in her patent shoes and blue skirt. I found the loo, splashed my face with some cold water and then rejoined my wife (the divorce lawyer) who was gossping with some other guests about how trashy Mrs Blah’s dress was.
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