After a busy fortnight at Wimbledon and Royal Birkdale it is back to business, at least as far as my dear old Aunt Murdock is concerned. I received one of her summonses on my return from the Open, and it would be a braver man than I to ignore such a request (I use that word in the loosest possible way).
Anyway, old Mad Duck had something of an agenda when I met up with her yesterday in the rather fine surroundings of the Dorchester. The Dorchester is one my favourite meeting places, I am rather fond of their lunches and they keep the most amazing wine cellar. After some pleasantries and half a bottle of a very fine Claret, conversation naturally turned to family matters. I say naturally, but in truth it was Aunt Murdock gently steering things that way. She has an uncanny knack for getting people to talk about things they really don’t want to.
Now, I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t want to talk about my family. I am actually rather fond of some of them, but once Aunt Murdock starts driving conversation down that particular avenue, it can only go one way. And despite my best efforts and a bottle of claret, there was no way to derail this particular verbal juggernaut.
Lady Murdock has several bees in her bonnet that she likes to harangue me with on a regular basis. Sometimes it’s about my life style, sometimes about money, but most often she gets all maternal on me and starts pestering me about marriage. She believes that the one thing I need above all else is a nice young wife who can push out a couple of children. Personally, I can’t think of any more dreary or off putting than having a brood of children getting under my feet all day.
Anyway, it seems that the old dear has been giving my nuptials rather more thought than I have and she has drawn up a short-list of eligible ladies she wants me to meet. I must admit that I was rather aghast at the notion that I should prepare to meet each of the ladies on her list over the coming months. Would you believe she has even arranged to have me invited to a number of social events so as to maximise my opportunities.
I can tell you I was rather angry at all this interference. I mean, a chap has a right to decide for himself where he goes to and who he sees. No woman has the right to make those decisions for me. That is just not on.
Of course, I am not foolish enough to actually say this out loud. Good heavens no, I am not that silly. I will just have to go along with her plans and hope that this time I somehow manage to find the next Lady Dimbelby-Smyth. After all, being married doesn’t have to mean I have to make any substantial changes, and it might actually be rather fun.
Anyway, my first engagement, so to speak, is a little soirée being organised by some old school pals of mine in a couple of weeks. Mad Duck says it is some kind of charity fundraiser on the Thames. Sounds frightful, but at least it’s close to home. In the meantime, it is, hopefully, all back to normal at Chez Dimbelby-Smyth. Tomorrow I need to go out and re-stock my wine cellar. I think I will invite Dasher to join me – he has great taste.