HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES

by Major H. Wayne-Bough

What a long tedious winter it’s been. I could tell the memsahib was bored when she started embroidering rude messages into her tapestry, some of them directed at me. Is that what is meant by cross stitch, I asked. She pointed to a cushion cover which depicted a flock of XXXX’s in flight over the word “OFF”. I figured she was suffering from a touch of metal fatigue, and brought her home some reading matter to cheer her up. “Here we go, old girl,” I said, “This’ll put the lead back in your pencil.” She gave me a look which would freeze vodka, and rolled the brand new copy of Soldier of Fortune into the shape of a dangerous weapon. It was high time for some distraction.

The Orient Express ball came along in the nick of time. Milady dug out her cloche hat and lisle stockings from the trunk in the attic and gave my old mess uniform the once-over with a damp cloth. I could hardly keep up as she swept into the Marriott moulting ostrich feathers, me staggering behind buckling under the weight of two Louis Vuitton trunks, a hatbox and a Yorkshire terrier called Tinkerbell. If that wasn’t bad enough, every time I went up to the bar, the head barman kept giving me a tray of drinks to take round. By the time we sat down at the table I was quite worn out. When I woke up after the speeches, Milady was schmoozing up to the French Ambassador, so I sneaked out for a smoke. I wandered down the corridor and happened upon the Servants Hall, where they were all jumping up and down in a demented fashion to their primitive tribal music, calling for someone called Alice. Although they all looked like characters from Breughel, they were good sorts really and let me stay and watch the cock-fighting. They even gave me a plateful of the roast pig that they were turning on a spit. Bawdy wenches were weaving through the throng balancing tankards of mead on their ample bosoms whilst handing out free tickets for the local massage parlour. A toothless crone sat in the corner, dishing out shots of laudanum. A makeshift opium den had been set up in the pantry, and a dusky houri was being auctioned for charity. This was my kind of party. I dragged a fulsome wench onto the dance floor and showed her my cummerbund. She was speechless. The loud music and heady smell of woodsmoke quite went to my head and I danced like John Travolta on Prozac. There was a bit of excitement when a herd of wildebeest stampeded across the room, but I was whisked to safety by a large bearded character daubed in blue woad. She told me her name was Tiffany and offered 10% diplomatic discount between 5.00 and 7.00 p.m.

My pungent pals took quite a shine to me, inviting me to share a serving gel with them. Now Daphne can detect the scent of another woman 100 yards away through three locked doors, and this one had a personal odour that would penetrate a gas mask, so I declined politely, but accepted a game of flaming-axe-hurling, which I won by a head (the Banqueting Manager’s, as it happens). The chaps hoisted me up on their shoulders and carried me around the room, chanting in guttural demotic. Finally, I was one of the lads! I felt I had to stand them a round of drinks, whereupon they elected me their new chieftain and sacrificed a bullock in my honour.

It was a night to remember. I must have danced myself to exhaustion, as I woke up on a bed of straw, where the peasants had kindly laid me. Someone had even been thoughtful enough to take off my uniform and boots and had lent me a smock to sleep in. Unfortunately the kind soul who took care of me didn’t leave a card, but Daphne swears she saw a very similar uniform to mine at the Russian market last week. Anyway, I quite like the smock, it’s very comfortable, and Daphne’s promised to cross-stitch my name and address on it.