There is an egg shaped lump on the front of my head, but according to the doctor, no concussion.
He does insist however, that tramping around Dartmoor for the rest of the day is now out of the question and tells me that a Land Rover is on its way to take us back to the hut.
I resist the urge to cry. This isn’t how I’d envisaged the day going at all – not that I’m at present capable of envisioning anything much at all really.
I feel a bit light headed and sick - determined to keep the Snicker down though…
2015 I’m sitting in mum’s flat making the most of her fussing. The lump’s gone down slightly (hopefully by the time tomorrow night comes it will no longer be the size of a small grapefruit). What's more, my head is no longer playing ‘Da Doo Ron Ron’ in throbbing time to my pulse – another plus…
I have a tray containing a light snack (all my stomach can take according to the doc, which is a bit unfortunate because I’m starving).
Even more unfortunate – I’m not allowed any wine…
I wonder if I qualify for a day in bed tomorrow! The idea appeals tremendously at the moment – but then I can hardly turn up at Trafalgar night tomorrow night if I do, so work it is. (I’m such a trooper).
Definitely going to have a lie in though.
Oh God, what if I get a black eye…?
Thursday 22 October
1030 Finally arrived in to work after taking my time getting up this morning.
I’ve had a leisurely shower and done my hair ready for tonight. The lump on my head is turning a delightful shade of purple which (thank you God) has not travelled down to my eye. It’s mostly covered by my fringe and anyway, a little purple showing is not necessarily a bad thing (much better to keep the attention on my injury tonight rather than the episode in the ditch – sympathy over humiliation every time).
I am of course staying on board. Nelson is staying with mum…
1600 I’ve spent the whole day holed up in my office. Have had a gratifying number of emails checking how I am (and asking if I’m going tonight – feeling quite popular).
And I’ve had a phone call from Rob…
He seemed very concerned and promised to ‘look after me’ tonight (sounds interesting). No mention was made about the ditch incident – really hoping that any photographs have gone underground.
Just like the ones from the Commando Challenge (don’t ask…)
1615 We’re having a quick staff meeting to discuss the information collected from our observations yesterday (language ones that is; although to be fair, I’m not averse to playing the brave plucky heroine injured while courageously doing her duty).
I swan in to the staff room, prepared to play my role to the hilt, only to find the conversation suspiciously stops as I waltz in. Everyone is trying very hard to contain their laughter.
I forgot about Andy’s mobile phone. Bastard!
1700 Just finished up in the office and heading up to my cabin for quick shower and pre-Trafalgar Night glass of wine with Sarah (my turn to bring the wine this time – no problem when you’re not dragging a reluctant Irish terrier along a parquet skating rink).
My hair’s already done so should be ready in record time.
Any Mess Dinner is always an excuse to dress up. The RN officers wear their ‘Mess Undress’ (always feel a bit sorry for the female officers) and the rest of us ladies get to put on our glad rags.
I have a range of stock outfits that I wheel out for Mess Dinners – the officer population changes pretty regularly so it’s not necessary to keep forking out for new rig (thought I’d slip that Navy term in – haven’t used one for a while).
My favourite is a long black taffeta skirt which I team with different tops and tonight I’m putting it with a black sleeveless sequined top with a sheer net back. (It’s pretty fitted so bit of a struggle to get on – I can only wear it because I’ve lost a bit of weight, so taking advantage before the Christmas pounds pile back on.) Never thought of it before but this weight thing is a bit like Groundhog Day really…
1815 Ok, so had a shower and my skirt and make up are on (gone for pink lipstick – don’t want to overdo the vamp bit with red). Just got the top to pull over my shoulders (why the hell didn’t they put a zip in?)
I slide the top over my head taking care not to mess the doo (or wipe off all my painstaking efforts to look like Sharon Stone...)
I manage to get one arm in followed by half of the other arm. Then I’m stuck…
Did mention that I can’t wear a bra with this top?
Shit, I’m now wedged with one arm in and one arm half in and I can’t move. My boobs are wobbling like a couple of water bombs underneath the hem of the top and I’m seriously beginning to panic.
Why on earth didn’t I try the damn thing on last night…?
OMG what the bloody hell am I going to do. I can’t ask Sarah to help me – she’ll be traumatized for life.
I can feel my face starting to sweat. Calm down Bev, just calm down. I blow upwards through my mouth, trying to get some air to my now shiny nose.
I take a couple of deep breaths – big mistake. There is an ominous ripping sound where my right arm is stuck.
I feel sick.
Sarah knocks on the door and asks if I’m ready for wine. “Just give me a couple of minutes.” I shout gaily as though I haven’t got a care in the world.
Inside I’m wailing “Oh God, oh God, oh God, please please please let me get out of this and I’ll never be vain again – ever, ever, ever…”
Well it’s now or never. I haven’t got anything else to wear so if I rip my top irreparably, I’m going home. I close my eyes and try and practice a bit of meditation (have you ever tried to meditate when you’ve one arm stuck above your head and your chest exposed to the world…?)
Experimentally I pull my jammed right arm closer to my body and slowly, slowly slowly I slide it upwards through the arm hole of the top…
About 5 minutes and half a ton of sweat later my arm is actually through. I resist the urge to punch the air (really would finish the top off).
Now all I need to do is pull the hem down over my chest…
I’m in! My face is unfortunately red and sweaty but the top is on – and I can’t see any rips anywhere. Thank you God, my new resolution not to be vain will definitely start tomorrow.
No idea how I’m going to get it off later – definitely puts any potential hanky panky right out the window. (I briefly envision Rob struggling to pull the offending garment over my head and shudder with imagined humiliation.)
Mind you, might be a good thing – it doesn’t do to look too easy! I remind myself that I’m looking for a proper relationship, not a one night stand (although from where I’m standing abstinence wise, a one night stand is actually looking pretty good).
Sarah knocks on the door again and I let her in.
“Bloody hell, what happened to your face?” She unceremoniously plonks herself down on the bed and hands me a very full glass of rosé.
“I had a bit of a struggle getting my top on.” I respond with the understatement of the year. “Give me a minute and I’ll repair the damage.”
It actually takes another 10 – the only recourse was to remove it all and start again. Still, by the end of it we’re both very mellow and ready for the night ahead.
I take a last look at myself before leaving the cabin and am pleased to note that all signs of stress are now gone – I have a bit of a rosy glow but I think that’s from the wine.
Let’s get this party started…
1900 The pre-dinner drinks on Trafalgar Night are always held on the Quarterdeck as the whole evening is considered a ‘training evolution’ for the cadets (yeah right). Then, just before we go into dinner, we all troop up to the Poopdeck balcony to watch the resident Royal Marine Band ‘beat the retreat’.
Basically this involves the band marching up and down the Quarterdeck playing some rousing tunes which helps to get everyone in the mood (if they
needed any assistance) followed by the lowering of the British Flag at sunset (known as taking down the Colours) while everyone in uniform stands to attention.
It’s all very Queen and Country and ‘Sun never setting on the British Empire’ kind of thing (actually pretty moving when you see it for the first time – can get a bit wearing when you’re watching it for the 20th though).
Still, all part of tradition and we all know how important tradition is to the RN.
As Sarah and I walk (carefully) on to the Quarterdeck, we’re accosted by a gratifying number of officers offering to get us a drink. I opt for red wine (start as you mean to go on).
I glance around but can’t see Rob yet in the milling throng of people. The officers and cadets on ABLE only returned to the College earlier today so they must be knackered – but then, this is the Royal Navy and who ever let exhaustion stand in the way of a good party?
I turn my attention back to the officer who has brought my drink and who is also apparently to host me during the dinner – a fresh faced baby Lieutenant who looks about 19. He is gazing at me with admiration and not a little awe - very heady. I flirt outrageously and enjoy the blushes my witty comments are causing (Ok I know I might not actually be quite Sharon Stone, but as ‘mature’ women go, there’s a lot of mileage in the old girl yet…)
1920 I still haven’t spotted Rob as we head upstairs to the Poopdeck balcony – I can only hope he’s been placed somewhere near me at dinner.
For the next 10 minutes I give myself over to the rousing music and in no time we’re all standing to attention while reflecting inwardly on Britain’s past glories (or in my case, have I got enough time to pop to the loo before dinner – once sat down at the table, you’re there for the duration until the mess president gives everyone permission to ‘ease springs’. And believe me, depending on how many toasts there are, it can feel like forever to your bladder…)
As soon as the flag has been dropped, the Band plays one more rousing chorus of ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor’ (very appropriate) as they march off the Quarterdeck.
My attentive escort is once again at my elbow and we make our way (slowly) down The Corridor towards the Senior Gunroom where traditionally the Trafalgar Night dinner is held.
After a quick pop to the heads, I am escorted to my seat which thankfully is not on the top table. Once there we remain standing until Grace is said.
My dinner companions on either side are both pretty young, (and male bless them) but opposite me is Rob… He arrives at the table at the last minute and grins at me. I can’t help it; I smile broadly back, my delight very evident on my face. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Problem with one of the cadets.” He responds briefly before going on to declare (to my delight). “You are looking absolutely gorgeous.”
Both my dinner companions agree wholeheartedly and I bask unashamedly in their admiration. (This is what makes it so nice to work in such a male dominated environment – Naval Officers might all be irritatingly chauvinistic at times, but boy do they know how to dish out the compliments).
2000 Before Rob can say anything further, the Mess President bangs his gavel onto the table and everyone quietens down for Grace.
My seat is gallantly pulled back for me and then we’re off. I have a brief look at the printed Order of ‘Service’ (mainly to check who the Guest of Honour is – I have no idea, and I have to say I’m none the wiser after reading it, but who cares?)
We start off with smoked salmon and minted melon balls (I think they’re meant to resemble the cannon balls on board HMS Victory…)
Luckily the wine’s only just started flowing so any juvenile firing of said minted cannon balls is fairly restrained.
2035 As the first course is removed, the opening part of the battle is described aloud by a (comparatively) sober cadet. This is accompanied by some ribald obscenities shouted by the French Exchange Officer (obviously now aided by a few glasses of wine) His English is still pretty fluent however, and his Admiral’s Bicorn hat is still sitting reasonably straight on his head.
2100 We’re now in to the main course – Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings in time honoured British tradition. Our token French Officer, Lt Girardeau, is now settling nicely in to his role assisted by several more glasses of wine (although he now appears to be playing Napoleon rather than Admiral Villeneuve, and his English has definitely deteriorated).
2120 As the main course is removed, the height of the Battle is described with more feeling than accuracy by another (now less sober) cadet…
At this point, Lt Girardeau (obviously feeling that his acting skills haven’t yet been fully challenged) leaps on to the table (although ‘leap’ is probably exaggerating it a bit) and waves his ceremonial sword around in what he probably considers in his inebriated state as a fair imitation of hand to hand combat but actually more accurately resembles a rabid chicken!
The Mess President adds to the mayhem by enthusiastically banging his gavel repeatedly while shouting “A forfeit is hereby given to Admiral Vill… I mean er, Admiral Villa er….. The Frog Admiral for his dishonourable conduct.”
2130 Luckily the dessert is brought out before further chaos erupts and Lt Girardeau (having fully exhausted his skills as a budding thespian), is persuaded off the table.
Dessert is Poached Pears served with cream and raspberry sauce and for a while relative order is restored as everyone concentrates on their pears in an effort to prevent them shooting across the table and splattering someone’s wonderfully white dress shirt with a never to be removed raspberry stain (unfortunately the pears don’t appear to have been poached for quite long enough rendering them more lethal on the chest front than a bowl full of spaghetti bolognaise).
2145 Pre Cheese and Biscuits sees the culmination of the Battle (depicted in an impressively dramatic manner befitting the greatest Victory in British Naval History) described by a very drunken cadet (whose first choice of career was obviously following in the footsteps of Sir John Gielgud).
And, at long last, the finale… The lights are dimmed as the stewards bring out trays containing the magnificent Chocolate ‘Ships-of-the-Line’ complete with live Sparklers sticking out from the hulls representing the cannon fire. As the dazzling cakes are slowly paraded around the table, the spectacle is completed by a drummer from the Royal Marine Band providing the cannon fire noise accompanied by lots of cheering and stamping of feet.
I notice that Lt Girardeau is suspiciously quiet during this ceremony – possibly overawed by this British display of chocolate might (or it could be he’s fallen asleep in his pears…)
2200 The Ships are removed back to the kitchen (I’m assuming the kitchen staff get to eat them – don’t know why they can’t have the poached pears instead.)
Still, we finish the meal with cheese and biscuits followed by coffee and mints so probably wouldn’t have had room for chocolate cake, (who am I kidding…?)
Once the table is cleared they bring out the Port decanters ready for the toasts and speeches. Unlike most naval officers, I’m not blessed with a bladder the size of an elephant, so I’m now beginning to feel a tad uncomfortable (really shouldn’t have had the water along with the wine). Unfortunately though, there’s no respite in sight quite yet so I content myself with crossing my legs and hoping for the best (in the olden days, male officers used to bring bottles…)
The Port is passed around the table and I restrain myself to half a glass (I’ve had a Port hangover – it’s the closest I’ve ever come to wishing for death.)
No one touches their glass until after the ‘Loyal Toast’ to the Queen which is performed by the Vice President. (Sipping the Port before the toast is not quite a hanging offence, but it’s very close…) Unfortunately I didn’t know this at my very first Mess Dinner, and had to ask for another glass after polishing off the first one immediately. (While they didn’t actually drag me away in chains, I’m convinced that the stigma lead
to my one and only Port hangover – that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.)
My bladder is now beginning to get insistent… I take a deep breath and cross the other leg. Luckily the toast to the Queen is traditionally taken seated (as if we’re on board a ship) for which I’m profoundly grateful…
Ok, that’s one down and one to go. Just got to get through the traditional Trafalgar Night Toast to Admiral Nelson, then hopefully we’ll be given permission to ease springs and I’ll be home and dry (pardon the pun).
Unfortunately the Mess President seems in no hurry to get to the next toast and is chatting to the Guest of Honour as if we have all the time in the world.
I can’t understand it – doesn’t he need to use the bathroom for God’s sake? Maybe pee bottles are a required part of their Mess Undress.
Before I can stop myself, I glance down at my dinner companion to see if he’s doing anything suspicious with his trousers…
I’m now struggling to focus on anything but my need for the toilet and I suddenly realize I’m rocking backwards and forwards like one of those toothless old crones that sit knitting by the Guillotine.
The customary Trafalgar Night toast to Nelson is usually done by the youngest person in the room and I try to distract myself by asking Rob who it is. By the time the Mess President gets up to bang his gavel, I’m fantasizing about cracking him over the head with it (the Mess President that is, not Rob!)
Happily the fresh faced Lieutenant who delivers the toast doesn’t have a bottle with him judging by the speed at which he shouts the words (there’s a definite urgency in his stance that can’t be mistaken – I want to kiss him).
This time we have to stand unfortunately and once on my feet, I’m tempted to make a run for it, etiquette be damned…
“To the immortal memory of Nelson and those who fell with him.”
And then it’s over. I’m back seated on the edge of my chair, poised like a coiled spring…
“Permission to ease spri...”
An Officer and a Gentleman Wanted: A Romantic Comedy Page 12