MAJOR’S CORNER: BY NIGEL SMYTHE-BROWN
My wife, Kitty, and I know a couple we think are the bee’s knees: Carol and Bob McKracken-Stik. They are both fun, well-read and amusing far beyond the norm.
Bob’s ability in the martini department is second to none, and Carol’s nuanced decorating style brings appreciative murmurs from anyone lucky enough to be in their circle.
Then why, as I snuggle into my wingback at the club, do I have trepidations about an invitation to a soirée chez Bob and Carol that I am now staring moodily at? I don’t want to appear petty, but it is their “no shoes” edict.
Oh Lord, they have a vast house with marble floors that play havoc with tender tootsies, not to mention collapsing insteps. People our age wear sensible shoes with orthopedic devices to prop up our tingling soles, and that should not be held up to disdain, much less public embarrassment.
Many of us at their last summer party, which was outside on the patio by the pool, understood that when Mrs. Hynde-Quarters’ swim suit tore, it meant future events would be held inside. Indeed, we were grateful. But no shoes allowed.
Both of the hosts are great walkers. They have done half of Europe on foot and now have legs like mountain goats. However, the rest of us consider once around Beacon Hill Park more than enough in the walking department, thank you, so have legs resembling small sticks. They work and all that, but only in the short term, not for the Pyrenees.
When these underused appendages meet the very firm floors of Bob and Carol’s house, there are silent screams from our shins down. To see elderly friends weeping into their gin and Ts puts a shroud upon the proceedings; not only that, but they also believe in “stand-up buffets” over a five-hour period.
I found one blubbering octogenarian in the powder room by the stairs who claimed it was the only spot he was allowed to sit down. He whispered that the year before it took almost a month for the red ring around his prominent behind to heal following Bob and Carol’s previous party because he had hidden for half a day in the same WC. Apparently, the lineup outside become quite unruly.
Knowing all this, I had the temerity, as Carol put it, to bring my comfy plaid slippers to their last get-together, and enjoyed a sanguine 10 minutes before my happy velvet shoes were summarily binned.
My choice of footwear was very obviously not only styleless but considered outlawed shoe-wear by these usually humane friends. One chap, hoping to avoid my embarrassment, brought a wheelchair but was found out early after his wife helped him carry it into the house.
My wife wore five pair of sport socks, but since no shoe would fit except for galoshes, I had to perform a fireman’s lift from our car to the front door of the party. My back has not been the same since. She skated about the place until she went through an open door to the cellar.
It is not as if we do not understand their desire to keep dirt at a distance, but to imagine their close friends to be barnyard animals with dirt fetishes is quite another kettle of fish. We have other friends who also dislike neighbours’ shoes about the house but (hear me, Bob and Carol) they have two-inch pile carpet throughout the mansion, not unforgiving marble tile.
When we have our parties, I would not dream of forcing people onto their wobbly ankles or encouraging juggling acts of salmon paté because guests may not be seated. I think the rule is: If someone is crying, the party is not going well. Bob and Carol seem oblivious, which is a shame for two such civilized people. Perhaps I will just look through their window this year.
Twitter: @TheYYJMajor
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