MATRIMONIAL MISADVENTURE NOTE: This piece, written in 2005, was again a ‘theme’ entry on my writers’ group on Ryze (pre-FB era), the theme being “Matrimonial / Dating advertisements”. Further, as the narrative will indicate, I was still in pre-retirement harness. *** I don’t get a newspaper. I don’t buy one. I seldom read one. I’m notoriously incurious about news. The last time I bought a paper regularly was The Statesman for the London Times Crossword, which it carried as a syndicated item, and its “Hundred Years Ago” column – both of which were supremely irrelevant. I’m married too. This preamble is necessary to understand the events described below. The splendid theme, with its tantalising possibilities of entertainment unfortunately left me in a quandary, given what is stated in para 1 supra; but I was not unduly worried. The office got enough newspapers; all I needed to do was ask one of the messengers to fetch me the Sunday editions of one or two. Come the week, and I collared the first of these johnnies with my peremptory requirement: “Get me the Matrimonials Sections of all the Sunday papers. And pronto!” And then, in a moment, I had the first faint glimmer of the difficulty of my task, which I had so airily dismissed in my mind. The johnnie in question, to my astonishment, did the stout Cortez act, accompanying wild surmise with a wide grin, and with unsanctioned familiarity asked what my requirements were in the bridal department. I froze him with a look and a curt, “Do as you are told!” But that did not stop him from singing on his joyous errand of supposedly helping me along in my mating endeavours. Of course, he failed to find the papers. I next asked a colleague for these – I now realised, rather delicate – requirements. He pursed his lips in transparent disapproval, and studiously avoided my eye. I hastily explained the writing theme business, but his aspect was one of referring it to the Marines. You see, I belong to a fearfully strait-laced organisation, whose morals would make Victoria seem profligate and dissolute; its Scots founders no doubt bequeathed a doughty strain of Presbyterian rectitude along with financial integrity. The Church would have loved us: we swear by immaculate conception. The other kind is for the flagrantly licentious. Accordingly, my request for the Matrimonials pages was seen as a sign of irredeemable depravity, a soul beyond hope. If he had been a Christian he would probably have sung the Dies Irae. He loped off, shaking his head in puzzlement at this unsuspected streak of moral infirmity. News, as they say, travels fast in my outfit. At the community ATM whither I had repaired for a bit of the ready a young thing who had once worked with me hailed me cheerfully with, “Sir!!!! Congratulations!!!” Since I was in no running of any kind anywhere I looked a large question mark at her. Unmindful of the multitudes in the queue she chirped away further about my ‘impending marriage,’ and going on to touch lightly, as it were, on my ‘numerous girlfriends.’ I was the perfect OED definition of a Casanova, a Lothario and a Bluebeard combined, for those who wished to see – and those who did were a nice mix of disgust (the women in the queue), and admiration/awe (the men). I gave the girl a “O Diamond, Diamond! Thou little knowest the mischief thou hast done!” look, and retreated to a quiet grove for a moody gasper. By now I realised I had started something. My boss – with whom I have an easy and expansive relationship – summoned me, ostensibly on an official matter, but in reality to pick my brains on the official position on bigamy. I expressed amused surprise, and asked earnestly if he was actively considering it. He shut me up, and benignly advised me to ‘watch your step.’ I had now come to terms with the situation, and saw wisdom in the adage of joining them since I couldn’t beat them. I walked into the Officers’ Mess like a general arriving for lunch, and as I surveyed the scene I was accosted by one of my friends – someone with whom I could be a lot more uninhibited by virtue of her being a ‘jaatwali’ (there is a subtle caste system in force between the naturally blue of blood and those who work their way up through crimson – the former are healthily irreverent, the latter profoundly devout, and profoundly disapproving of the former). She got into the res immediately and with breezy gusto: “What’s all this about your getting married?” I forked a mouthful and said, “Ah, you’ve heard.” “Does your wife know?” she asked. I said I was quite sure the intelligence agencies had taken care of that trifling detail. “And what do you think she’d have to say to it?” “Nothing. She’ll greet the prospective incumbent warmly, and tell her that she could have me – ALL OF ME – with her compliments, and here’s a dowry too to cover your divorce costs – you’ll need it, my dear!” Her peel of laughter broke the stuffed frog solemnity of the mess – but for the others, it was merely confirmation of my newfound status. *** JJ.
Posted on: Tue, 03 Jun 2014 16:19:07 +0000
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