Oops - I Did it Again

It's Thursday evening. On balance, it has been a good day.

The weekend looms on the horizon. The kids are going to their grandparents on Friday evening and will not return till Sunday afternoon. I'd been planning to clean the pool, do a few kilometres in my kayak and maybe even give the tennis court some attention, but spring is a capricious season and occasional showers are now forecast all the way through to next week.

So I was caught unawares when the phone call came inviting me to a party on Saturday evening. Instead of immediately pleading some prior commitment, I asked: "what sort of party?"

"Oh" said Jane, a long-term friend who lives in a small country town about an hour's drive away, "We're having a toga party and we'd love you to come along. Haven't seen you in ages?"

A toga party? I'd heard of them. Years ago maybe. Do they still occur?

"Jane," I replied, "I don't think I do togas very well. Sorry. But thanks for inviting me anyway."

"Well" she said, "You don't have to wear a toga. It's just that a few of us got together and thought an Ancient Rome theme would be nice."

Having once played a small role as the Menagerie Keeper in a High School production of "Androcles and the Lion", I am well aware of how precarious and ridiculous togas are - it's no small indignity to be fifteen years old and have your costume disintegrate midway though your one "big" moment on stage!

I like Jane, and I like her husband Tom too. They're about half a generation older than I am and were incredibly supportive when I first became a single dad. And I would like to catch up with them. Already weakening somewhat, I asked if I could come as a gladiator or a Roman centurion.

"Yes, of course" she said. "That would be wonderful."

So there it was. I was hooked. Even worse, Miss Eleven had overheard my side of the conversation as she raided the refrigerator.

"Dad, how are you going to organise a gladiator costume between now and Saturday?"

"Ah, well you may not know it, young lady, but I just happen to have been a Centurion in a former life. The outfit's somewhere in the attic." This seemed to blow her mind.

"You're pulling my leg" was the reply.

So I got out a few of the old photograph albums and showed her pictures of her parents attending costume parties in the early days of our marriage. For a Priests and Prostitutes Ball, Jennifer was garbed in a micro-mini, fishnet stockings, killer heels and a lurex bikini-top. Her husband was attired as the Pope. And then I showed my daughter some photos of her old man playing the Roman centurion at an "anything goes" event.

"Wow" she said. "I've never seen these before. They're cool. How come you're a priest and Mum's a disco-dancer? Why didn't she go as a nun?"

I've not yet felt a need to discuss prostitution with my daughter, and right now didn't seem the right time. Not that it mattered. We'd entered her favourite territory. Nuns. She has watched "The Sound of Music" and "Sister Act" at least a thousand times and approves heartily of their garb. She periodically announces that she's going to be a nun when she grows up. We're not Catholic but she seems to believe that nuns get to sing a lot and be nice to everyone. Mind you, she also says that she won't stay a nun forever - she'll find a rich guy just as Fraulein Maria did and then she'll wear beautiful dresses like those worn by the Baroness!

Her next question came with splendid disregard for my self-esteem or vanity. "Do you think you'd still fit into that centurion outfit?"

"Of course I will. The bigger question is whether we can find it amongst all the stuff up there. Even worse - maybe it's been attacked by mice, moths and mildew."

Well, we did find it and it's still in good condition. The sandals are a bit tatty but the good news is that the outfit still fits me. The pleated tunic does not seem likely to burst at the seams, the helmet's plumage is intact, and the gilded papier mache breastplate is almost as enhancing as Madonna's metal bra!

Next question was: "Um, Dad, you know all that stuff about Scotsmen not wearing underpants under a kilt? What did gladiators and centurions wear under their tunics?" I have to admit that I have absolutely no idea. Maybe a toga was a better idea after all. The last time I went Roman, I'm sure I wore briefs underneath. Boxers certainly don't sound authentic.

I'm sure it was less than two weeks ago that I swore off parties for life - or at least for a few weeks. Now I'm off to another one. Truth is, I can resist everything but temptation! The good news is that I know this particular circle of friends is not intent on finding me a new partner. They'll all probably be older than me and, even though I've heard that "seventy is the new sixty", I doubt they think very much about sex or dating. I must say I like the arithmetic though. If seventy really is the new sixty, then I'll be in my forties again - a mere lad - on Saturday night!

The kids have been giggling over some very old albums all night. They can't believe I once wore flared trousers, body shirts and fluoro shorts. I must confess that I now have trouble believing it too. And I've still got the fluoro shorts somewhere- maybe they'll come back into fashion! Mr Fifteen says I'm going to look like a cross-dresser in my little Roman skirt. He says the same about photos of me as a kilted-up page boy when I was four.

Pam rang shortly after we'd finished dinner. She's wondering if I'd like to drop by on Saturday. She wants to tell me how her session with Tony went. I'm interested but tell I'll be too busy as I'm going to a party that night. She sounds a bit miffed that she hasn't been invited too but I point out that she and I are not an "item" and these are people she's never met. As a sop, I offer to call by tomorrow. I know I'll have to head into town to track down some fake sun-tan stuff. I don't think centurions were pallid creatures and it's hardly the weather for tanning naturally right now.

Anyway, as I said at the outset, it has basically been a good day.

I had two "bread & butter" consults back-to-back this morning. Two young guys with court appearances approaching - one for driving while intoxicated and under suspension, the other for assault causing grievous bodily harm. Both will be pleading guilty and their legal representatives are seeking some psychological insight that may form part of a plea in mitigation before sentencing.

I'm happy to issue a report in return for a good fee but I'm no prostitute. Neither of these young men seems capable of showing contrition. Neither of them truly accepts responsibility for his actions and, given their appalling track records of prior offences, I cannot in all conscience say that a custodial sentence is unwarranted. True, they need help with alcohol abuse and anger management issues but, after years of antisocial behaviour, my private belief is thay both need a good legal "smack". Naturally, that view will not appear in my report, but nor will there be comments that seek to mitigate their actions because they've had a tough life or because they were molested by aliens when they were twelve! The reality is that they've been so indulged by family and friends that they see themselves as invulnerable and exempt from the rules that govern the rest of society.

So, in one way, it is a relief that today I did not see anyone whose horrific story will be etched in my consciousness long after any "bread & butter" reports have been neatly filed away. On the other hand, I'm not beyond feeling some twinge of guilt that today I tilted at no windmills, fought no demons and brought no comfort to anyone except, perhaps, myself.

So far as the great fitness campaign is concerned, my conscience is crystal clear. I went for a run at first light and pushed myself fairly hard at the gym and in the pool. I'm now on nodding terms with most of the regulars and I'm pleased to note that I'm not the only old fart who's refusing to give in without a struggle. I've abandoned the Speedos. I now find myself agreing that only super-models or the super-buff and toned look good in them.

Bed-time soon. I've been listening to Brook Benton, Dinah Washington and Nina Simone for the last hour or so. Upstairs I can hear Eminem. It's no contest in my mind!

I'm wondering if I'm heading into hot water yet again. Why am I planning to spend Saturday night with these people? Sure, they're good friends but - and here my dick speaks - this will hardly advance my campaign to find a regular bed-partner.

I already know what I'll be thinking of as I drift off to sleep tonight.

"What if my car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and I'm dressed as a Roman centurion?"

"What if I have a wardrobe malfunction on the dance floor?"

And: "What the hell did centurions wear under their tunics?"

I've a premonition that I'm headed for yet another disastrous Saturday night.

Can't help feeling "Oops - I've done it again!"

Comments

Ah -- no -- you worry too much. Give a guess that centurions wore loin cloths under their tunics. Maybe. Still some risk of wardrobe malfunction. I wonder what single women will have been invited -- and what they'll be wearing. Now centurions were a pretty aggressive lot. Maybe the women will expect you to have your way with them. Could be worse, and, who knows. Regular may follow.
 

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