Men may sometimes be rather similar, but no two women are ever alike.
This was brought home to me last Saturday when, peering short-sightedly out of a crowded bookshop, I saw an attractive woman advancing towards me, all smiles and beaming eyes.
‘Julie!’ I cried and, stepping forward, took her in my arms and planted a resounding kiss on her cheek. The crowded bookshop was all attention.
‘But I’m not Julie!’ she exclaimed, extricating herself from my embrace. ‘That bear-hug was very generous of you, Mr Bond, but all I wanted was your autograph!’
At close quarters I could see that she wasn’t Julie or anyone else that I knew, and I made a mental note to have my eyes tested again. As I was apologising, the sun suddenly disappeared, eclipsed by the enormous figure of a gentleman who resembled a participant in a World Wrestling extravaganza.
‘And this is my husband Brigadier Bhupathi,’ said the woman who wasn’t Julie.
The Brigadier looked me up and down as though I were a corporal on parade.
‘Beetle Bailey at your service,’ I said.
‘And do you always greet your fans with such enthusiasm?’ he asked, twirling his moustache. (Actually, it was twirling on its own, aided by a soft breeze.)
‘Only when they are very special,’ I said, and fled the scene.
As my eyesight is no longer to be relied upon, I must be more careful in public. I have, on occasion worn socks of different colours (setting a trend, I hope), got into someone else’s car (all cars look alike in the dark), and absent-mindedly eaten my host’s fish mayonnaise, having already polished off my own.
Unlike Mr Pickwick, I have yet to get into the wrong bed, but that dreadful possibility (or tremendous adventure, depending on how you look at these things) seems only a few late-night cocktails away.
And I must be careful not to write funny stories about friends or relatives who are within striking distance of me. HH the Maharani of —— cut me out of her will because I’d compared her to a flower. True, it was only a cauliflower, but she took offence. Rules to follow if I want to stay alive:
Never call an actor an ‘ageing actor’.
Never call a writer a ‘minor writer’.
Never call a good drinker a ‘drunk’.
Never call a judge a ‘fathead’.
Never call a general ‘an old duffer’.
It is safest to stick to relatives, real or imaginary, belonging to the distant past. Such as my Uncle Ken, the hero of many misadventures during my boyhood days.
‘Did you really have an Uncle Ken?’ This is a question I am often asked by eager young readers. Uncle Ken is popular with them because he epitomises all that is silly, selfish and incompetent in adults. School children are so used to being called duffers that it’s nice to come across a grown-up who is an even bigger duffer!
I did have an Uncle Ken who perfected the art of doing nothing and still managing to live quite comfortably. Sometimes I think he wasn’t such a duffer after all.
And did Uncle Bill really try to poison me? Well, he was in the habit of carrying around little packets of arsenic, and sometimes these got mixed up with those little packets of sugar that you get in some hotels … But let’s confine him to the realm of fiction, and turn to Grandfather, who did keep a number of unusual pets; and Granny, who had to feed them in addition to feeding a hungry boy and others; and Aunt Mabel, who was afraid of moths (having swallowed one while attempting to sing an aria from Madame Butterfly); and Aunt Ruby, who saw fairies wherever she went; and Cousin Percy, who ran away to sea and was last seen struggling to free himself from the tentacles of a giant octopus.
Everyone has at least one aunt or uncle or distant relative who is a potential nutcase. I had several! And thanks to them, I have never run out of stories.
Ruskin Bond
Mussoorie
Dussehra, 2007