Let us never speak of it again...

[caddyman]

Gentles, I return with a tale of woe that has picked up and sped along since about six this evening. Let me take you through this litany of misery in reverse order.

We have just returned from the weekly quiz in our local pub, The Griffin, having picked up a measly 13 points from a potential 30. Our arch rivals beat us by ten whole points. It was horrific, particularly as we changed one correct answer for a wrong one and discounted a couple that turned out to be correct. We would still not have won, but there may have been an honorable mention to be had.

We shall never speak of this again¹.

Moving back earlier into the evening, we switch from embarrassment to aggravation.

Intriguingly, I received a letter addressed to colonel_maxim, sent directly to this address. This is not and never has been his address, so I felt intrigued enough to do something I should never do under other circumstances and opened it. My intuition proved correct: the letter is from the Deposit Protection Agency (or whatever they are called) and deals with the return of our deposit from our time at The Athenaeum Club. The good news is, that despite the good Colonel's oft trumpeted assertion that we would never see a penny of it again and therefore there was no point in leaving the place clean and tidy, we are in fact, receiving the entire deposit plus interest.

The bad news is that I cannot sign the form. colonel_maxim seems to have been designated 'prime tenant' or whatever, and although there are fields for up to five tenants to put their bank details for return of the money, he has to sign it.

He is not only posted to Afghanistan for at least a year, but right now is not even there, being on holiday in Thailand and uncontactable. I shall, therefore have to spend a chunk of tomorrow on the phone to the agency to see if we can sort it without him.

I just know that it will not be simple.

Finally, we go back a couple of hours earlier again and here we meet the embarrassment. Oh Lordy, yes.

Leaving work just after six this evening, I availed myself of the facilities², before exiting the building. Fair enough and unremarkable, you may say and quite right too. Sadly, on the platform at Victoria, I realised that I had been standing there - how shall I put this - freer than I had supposed. Yes kids, your hero had forgotten to zip his flies.

Mortified.

I don't think anyone noticed and I managed discreetly to rectify the situation post-haste.

Of course, when I got home and got changed, I realised that a further set of buttons were undone, too. It is possible, though mercifully unlikely, that someone got to see rather more than is considered socially acceptable.

That's when I nearly fainted with embarrassment.

Oh dear.


¹Unless I can somehow turn it into a funny anecdote, at which point you will probably wish that we should never speak of it again.

²The little civil servants' room, blockhead!

Comments

[romney.livejournal.com]

As long as the cuckoo didn't come out of the clock...

[bluesman.livejournal.com]

Of course, you had to say it.

[binidj.livejournal.com]

Screenshot or it didn't happen.

[caddyman.livejournal.com]

You are a bad, bad man, Mr Bin.

Slapped wrist.

[pauln.livejournal.com]

So long as it was only the redness of the face that was showing.

[ladkyis.livejournal.com]

Key question here, Did you hear any screams whilst on your journey? If not then inspite of your red-faced hopes no bu***r noticed!

This just proves that old wives tale that the only person that was taking any notice of you was... you.
This is a good thing. and means that you don't have to feel mortified any more.