A re-post …
Good manners bade me call on the wife of a client yesterday. The woman is someone whom I have been known to go to the greatest lengths to avoid. There was one incident during a function at The Johannesburg Country Club, when I fled into the Gentlemen’s WC; which resulted in a quite nice engagement party and my current happy marriage. As usual, I digress; there was a new baby and a courtesy call was unavoidable.
Said Wife-Of-Client is that breed of despicable woman: The Organiser. Without being told (alas, you will be – at length) you just know that she was the girl with the clipboard and whistle at school fetes. Not only will she be a voluntary tuck-shop mom when the time comes, she will offer to be the convener and the treasurer. I believe she will develop a secret crush on the Headmistress.
A great fan of Dame Barbara Cartland, WOC has a poncey, affected way of speaking and – through the biggest teeth I’ve ever seen – imparts little gems of advice to me, pertaining to mixing with people who are ‘not our sort’.
WOC’s parents once encountered Mr. Richard Burton at a rehabilitation centre (which posed as a ski resort) and the family have since had a fixation with all things Welsh. WOC has given her three unfortunate looking sons throat-clearing Gaelic names. The first born is Ahern, a boy so dreadful that Original Bunn refused to accompany me. Precisely two years after Ahern, the devil incarnate made his appearance and was christened Caradogh. Yesterday’s putty-faced arrival has been gifted with the lovely moniker; Llywarch. I can’t mention their surname here, but I know that these children are going to be very cross with their mother when they start school.
I stayed on a bit in the hope that the drinks trolley would make an appearance, but when they put on their Mal Pope records, I ran like the wind and stopped off for a visit at Kev-The-Mick’s house. Altogether a nicer experience; ‘our sort’ or not.