Sadly, another chap who was a mem of our great club has passed.
He did not go silently. As the end approached, he sat up in his hospital bed, pointed at his wife and shouted, "The arrowroot biscuit last night tasted very odd," then fell back dead. The poor woman turned bright red with embarrassment and sought comfort from her new young man as we skulked away.
To be fair, the now-inert Edwin had used the club elevator far too much in the past few years while the rest of us shot up and down the main staircase like fawns, or at least that was what we thought we looked like. The point is, we used the stairs and Edwin, late of this parish, did not. Many of us have been advised by our doctors to stare at our naked bodies more frequently, so that we can become experienced watchers of the ebb and flow of the feeble flesh, which we were informed would tell us all we need to know concerning our health.
If I am fair, I have a long way to go. I don't so much have love handles as love fins. They hang well over the trouser tops and cannot be easily tucked in; now the flannels must be dropped to the ankles and pulled up over said fins in order to camouflage the twin dorsals.
But let the record show Smythe-Brown is trying to change. I am happy to report that the Brigadier and I turned our noses up at the usual second helping of the club's apple crumble, and that is saying something. However, I did catch the old soldier with 40 "after dinner mints," which I made him distribute to the hordes on the sidewalk outside the club.
We must change our habits or fall face-down into the soup. I think someone once called it the two-second rule; one cannot push the clock backwards, rich or not, even two seconds. When the jig is up, it is up, so we must press on no matter what.
The memsahib takes enormous exception to me staring into mirrors sans clothes, especially the foyer mirror. Usually I am alone in the afternoons when I return from my club (the home of homes). Since the mirror in the bedroom is at Kitty's height, I cannot see fully one-third of my zeppelin-like body. Bravely, after checking that no one but the frightful cats are about, I bound down the circular stairs and present my flushed corpus to the large mirror by the front door.
There I can take the time to admire what is left of a magnificent study in ligament and muscle. From my sparse head to my gnarled toes, I take in the full effect of an elderly, spotty but still attractive body of someone ready for anything. The flat beer comes after the glow leaves me, the scales fall from my eyes and I see what all see, well past his prime, a mountain of corruption. This forces me to the liquor cabinet for a meditative martini, with a lie-down on the flowered couch for a restorative nap.
When, after a distant scream I reopen my baby blues, I find the wife and three of her closest pilot-fish goggling at me as if they had just come upon an anatomically correct Toby mug. I have often wondered why I do not keep a handy dressing gown in the living room as I am sure other like-minded men must do.
Returning to my long-ago thought of not wanting to let myself go to seed like Edwin, arrowroot or not, I am determined to walk much more, push back from the trough earlier and watch the drink, which will lead me to a calm and healthy farewell.
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