foot in mouth

I dragged FH kicking and screaming to the alter on our wedding day, not because he hadn’t decided he was going to have a crack at spending at least a portion of his life with me, but because if atheism were an illness he would be a terminal case. He married in a church to please me after having thoroughly examined the script in our marriage preparation interview, and got married at all to please my then current headmaster so we could have children and I could keep my job.

However, within a year I had discovered a way of making him pray, not to any particular God, but for the ground to open up and swallow him. He calls my technique ‘foot in mouth’ disease.

The first incident occurred when I was pregnant with our first child and we went to view a house. Sensitive to bodily shape and anxious to break the ice I asked the lady of the house when her baby was due.  The woman’s stoney reply, ‘I’m not pregnant’ had my other half metaphorically genuflecting.  Thank goodness we didn’t like the house and never had to make contact again.

Like many unpleasant experiences putting your foot in your mouth becomes a lot easier when you have done it before. The next serious incident took place at his works social.  Again, trying to make polite conversation I asked the officious company secretary how her husband Cyril was.  Her husband, Eddie, just happens to weigh 25 stone and their surname isn’t even Smith. (Cyril Smith was a very overweight politician of the time.)  If FH had not been speechless he probably would have said, ‘hand me my revolver.  I am just going for a walk’.

It proved possible to keep up the momentum of the ‘foot in mouth’ technique. In search of a large table for a dinner party I contacted a political associate of FH who also happens to be the local Methodist church caretaker.  He agreed to lend me a trestle table for a donation to church funds if I went to collect it.  On the morning of the event I duly went to knock at his house near the church.  A lady with grey hair answered.  “Sorry to bother you”, I said, frantically trying to remember the man’s name, “but your son offered to lend us a trestle table today.  Do you know where he is?”  She laughed a little wryly.  “I think you’ll find my husband in the church.  Go straight in”.

The worse was still to come. In 1989 I landed a job in a PR company.  My soon to be boss, Mark, had corresponded with me several times prior to the starting date, long, elaborate letters full of latin quotes such as ‘nil desperandum.  Amused by his rather pretentious style FH referred to him as Neil – ‘nil desperandum’.

On the first day FH and I went out to lunch with Mark. We walked a circuitous route through the streets of Newark with me pleasantly referring to Mark as Neil.  FH desperately tried to walk beside me to pinch or nudge me into a realisation of what I was doing and I equally determinedly kept Mark in the middle so he would not feel left out.  Once at the pub Mark asked FH what he would like to drink.  “A pint of bitter please MARK”.  Horrified at his mistake I tugged his sleeve and eyes wide hissed, “not Mark, NEIL!”  Our eyes met.  In the fullness of that moment was the feeling of excruciating embarrassment, but also the humour of it.  “no dear” said Russ, “not Neil – Mark”.  A team effort and studious avoidance of eye contact got us through lunch, but we collapsed into giggles once we reached the car and laughed till we cried on the way home.

 

Fortunately all our children are blessed with excellent memories and know everybody’s name so I can call on them for support these days. I considered that the tendency for faux pas within our family would die with me.  Last week-end on a trip to my elderly mother I discovered this was not to be.  When a big hug and kiss and other charming pleasantries failed to get any positive response as is the usual case for our middle son with my Mum, he threw himself into an easy chair and when my mother paused for breath in her monologue, made eye contact, hands clasped together and queried, “well Nana, what’s sex like?”  on the way home, when I gently queried whether such a question was appropriate in the situation, he responded with the honesty and logic of youth.  “well Mum, she must have done it at least 3 times and I was trying to think of something to talk about”.  Like mother, like son.

 

This fell out of one of my toastmaster books when I was clearing some papers. I must have used it as a speech.

Toastmasters International is a US headquartered nonprofit educational organization that operates clubs worldwide for the purpose of promoting communication, public speaking, and leadership skills.

It dates back to the 90s. I am trying hard to be funny.