I know I have touched on this subject before, but it seems to be one of those renewable subjects that waggles its ears from the horizon every six months or so. I refer to the dreaded honeymoon. To be honest, I am not sure what is expected these days from young married couples. As many of you will remember I have been asked, nay begged, to be the master of ceremony at numerous couplings; I have been told more than once by frantic fathers that I appear to have a calming influence on the thug-like guests of today. I recall at one ceremony it took only a raised eyebrow from your Major for the best man to produce the "jokingly" kidnapped vicar from the trunk of his car. I could go on, as these things are more like rodeos than the serious and holy occasions of yesteryear.
However, it is the dreaded honeymoon, and I say dreaded because I am put in mind of our generation's spotty cognition when faced with the moment of truth. This came up the other day as one of our own has decided to jump off the dock and remarry late in life. James Nugget, a man as close as wallpaper when it comes to spending his brass, has met a large woman with lovely ankles and is well and truly smitten. Last week he asked a few of us to a meeting in the subterranean depths of the club about the subject "What does one actually mean by 'honeymoon'?"
His problem is that he does not really recall his first marriage much, as it did not last long after she realized he would not part easily with money in general, and specifically, no new frocks for her. She was off after a few months of the porridge lifestyle, never to be seen again. James has absolutely no memory of the official honeymoon attached to the three-month marriage, and so sought our advice.
My thoughts on the subject are fairly grim as I had not understood that my new bride Kitty, or any woman for that matter, shaved. I honestly thought it was all sugar and spice and that was it. I admit I was naive, but most of us were in that era. The other shocking thing at the time was that I was expected to get at it and soon. I thought it would be a leisurely 10 days, not a stud farm. I am almost sure I did myself a long-lasting injury on that junket.
James quailed as I expressed my thoughts on the subject. The brigadier chirped in with his experience. He had removed his shirt in front of the first of his four wives, who, upon viewing his hedgehog-like back, legged it. Many of us pushed the cheese sandwiches away as our appetites had flown with his original wife at the thought of the semi-nude brigadier. Another chap piped up that the conversation was the very reason he had remained a lifelong bachelor and then left abruptly.
A nearby colonel sat down next to James, looked at him sympathetically and began to tell of his experience. When he and his wife reached the hotel after the wedding, he was shaking like Jell-O, contemplating his forthcoming duty. He carried his toothy bride across the doorway of their suite, then began to weep inconsolably. His concerned wife assured the poor man that everything takes time and perhaps this more so. With a timorous "Really?" he hugged her in gratitude, allowing nature to take its delightful course.
Thanks to the colonel, the wedding is back on, including the dreaded honeymoon. Good luck, James.
