Those embarrassing moments

I suppose we all have them at some time of our lives. Red-faced and wishing to crawl under the first rock you see. Mine happened a few years ago when the Missus and I were visiting some relations that I hardly knew just off Harley Street in London.

The house was late Edwardian, and a mansion that embraced a colossal reception area, a couple of conservatories, a huge kitchen and scullery plus the usual offices all done out in black-and-white tiles.

We met some old fogeys too, like Uncle George and Aunt Tilly, both in their late eighties and dressed to match their counterparts who graced the walls and were framed behind glass and photographed in sepia. A right jolly lot they were, with not a smile between them.

Cousin Hugh who was dressed quite similar to Sherlock Holmes (without his deer stalker) held centre stage with tales of big-game hunting in Africa while tea was served, and it was during his endless repertoire that the Missus nudged me in the ribs and whispered she wanted to spend a penny.

Aunt Edith escorted her out of the room and naturally I thought all was well. Some 20 minutes later the Missus returned. Sitting down next to me I asked her what took so long. Her cheekbones suddenly turned scarlet and she snapped open her handbag. “Look,” she whispered sadly. “I broke their ruddy toilet.”

Nestled in her portmanteau I saw a highly polished mahogany handle and a length of brass (could have been gold) chain. Naturally, I said a rude word. “What the heck did you bring it in here for?” I whispered, feeling a bit annoyed.
Being the Missus, she came back with, “I thought you`d fix it for me.”

Yup, that’s me, Mr Fixit… So the first opportunity I had, I transferred the beautifully turned piece of mahogany and chain from the Missus’ handbag to my pocket and casually walked out the back.

One look at the errant piece of chain hanging from the cistern above told me that I needed more than brute strength and ignorance to fix it. I needed a pair of long-nosed pliers and a pair of side cutters. Naturally, being old school, I had all the necessary in the boot of my car. Reversing out the loo I headed for the driveway where I had parked my car. Two ticks was all it took… and I hoped that no-one in the party would have noticed.

Now nothing short of a miracle ever lets me do something mechanical without something going wrong. Today was no exception! Halfway through operation joining the two lengths of chain, my pliers got hopelessly stuck in one of the links. My arthritis didn’t help. Then it happened, someone began to hammer on the door. “Geoffrey, are you all right in there, what the devil are you doing?”

Of course it had to be Uncle George. “Sorry,” I hollered. “I seem to have got my tool stuck in the lavatory chain!”
A pregnant pause followed. And as the penny dropped I heard Uncle George exclaim in his gorgeous Olde English accent.“Good heavens!”

Driving home late that afternoon the Missus turned to me. “What the dickens did you tell Uncle George?”
I put on a blank expression. “Nothing really, why?”

“Well, when he came back from finding out where you were, he went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a double.”