Confessions of a Gym Mistress

“I meant ten o’clock,” says Geoffrey.

“I knew you did!” I nearly scream at him. “I was making a little joke.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, very good.”

“Where are we eating, Geoffrey?” I say patiently.

“This new place I was telling you about.”

“I remember that, Geoffrey,” I say grimly. “What is it called?”

“Oh, um, Star of—no. The White—no. It’s somewhere near Goodge Street.”

“You’ve been there?”

“No. A bloke I know told me about it.”

“Can you remember what his name was?” I say sarcastically.

“I think it was Reg Gadney. No, wait a minute, it was—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Honestly, Geoffrey is impossible. I can think of people I have seen on the party political broadcasts who inspire more confidence.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll recognise it when I see it.”

Unfortunately, Geoffrey reckons without the fiery Latin temperament of one of Stanley Kramer’s tennis stars. He hits a ball at a line judge and it catches Geoffrey smack in the eye. I am furious—Geoffrey’s choc ice goes all over my new skirt—and poor Geoffrey can hardly see anything. His eye swells up and he sits there for the rest of the match with his handkerchief over his face. The officials offer him a free ticket but I can’t see what good it is going to be if he can’t see anything.

Some of these lithe, superbly muscled tennis stars with their film star good looks and brown hairy legs ought to make more effort to control themselves. They may think that they can get away with murder but as far as I am concerned, they are absolutely right. When I look at them and I look at the star of Eastwood Tennis Club I think that Geoffrey would be better off strapping both his tennis rackets to his feet and emigrating to Alaska.

I keep hoping that the player who zapped Geoffrey will come over and apologise so that I can ask for his autograph, but at the end of the game he vaults over the net, punches his opponent senseless and disappears—goodness knows what would have happened if he had lost.

“It’s over now, Geoffrey,” I say. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to see to drive to the restaurant?”

“I think so,” he says. “You may have to help me get the food in my mouth, though.” Geoffrey is very English because he only makes jokes when he is suffering.

The journey to the West End is a nightmare because I can’t drive and Geoffrey has to control the car with one hand over his injured eye and the other changing gear and holding the wheel. I start off by trying to help but when we have driven over the flowerbeds outside the town hall I leave it to Geoffrey. I feel such a fool because he has to cock his head to one side to see properly and I notice the other drivers nudging each other at the lights. They must think I have just socked him one for getting fresh. Fat chance of that!

When we get near Goodge Street it is absolutely hopeless. Geoffrey can’t see anything and can’t remember anything and we drive up endless streets full of parked cars and dustbins.

“You call out the names and I’ll see if any of them rings a bell,” says Geoffrey. “What’s that place over there? ‘Felice’? That rings a bell.”

“Is it a vegetarian restaurant?” I ask.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well it can’t be that one. That’s a florist.”

We go on for another ten minutes and I decide I can’t stand it any longer. “Let’s stop anywhere,” I plead. “If I don’t get something to eat in a minute I’m going to start chewing your plastic banana.”

“What?” says Geoffrey, hopefully.

“The thing you’ve got hanging from the rear view mirror.” I tell him. “Come on, this place will do: ‘Borrman’s German Restaurant.’ I’ve never had any German food.”

Well, I can tell you right away. This is not one of my best ideas. The minute the waiter overhears Geoffrey saying that he reminds him of Hitler I know we are going to have problems.

“Ze var is over,” he screams. “Whole generations ov nazis have grown up who av never eard ov concentration camps.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You’re absolutely right. Now, what would you recommend?” You can’t fault me on the humble meter, can you?

Unfortunately, the waiter clearly feels he has an axe to grind. I have noticed before how Geoffrey manages to rub people up the wrong way.

“Recommend?” he shouts. “Vott, you zink zere is something wrong with some ov it? Gott in Himmel, that the Führer should be alive today.” He throws down the menu and we don’t see him again for twenty-five minutes.

“The decor is nice,” says Geoffrey.

“How much longer are you prepared to sit there?” I hiss. “Are you a man or a mouse?”

“Which do you prefer?” says Geoffrey. You know, I really think he means it.

“Tell him we want some food or we’re getting out,” I say. “There’s no excuse for the delay. We’re the only people in the place.”

At first I think that Geoffrey has developed a cold in the throat. Then I realise that his nervous cough is attempting to attract the waiter’s attention. Honestly, talk about an evening with Steve McQueen. I am not surprised that Geoffrey once missed the mixed doubles final because he shut his fingers in his racket press. I am just on the point of taking matters into my own hands when two enormous plates of sausage and red cabbage arrive on the table.

“We didn’t order this,” says Geoffrey.

“‘Order’!? You don’t know ze meaning ov ze vord order,” screams our waiter, fingering his duelling scar. “Ze Panzers, ze knew vot an order vos!” Before we can say anything he sweeps the plates onto the floor and dives behind one of the tables.

“This definitely isn’t the place my friend told me about,” says Geoffrey.

“Don’t be so defensive!” I tell him. “We all make mistakes.”

“Ze died vere ze lay!” screams the waiter. He starts pulling the side plates off the tables and hurling them towards the kitchen.

“Boumf! Boumph!”

“Do you want to stay?” says Geoffrey.

“Are you mad?” I say.

“No, but I’m a bit worried about him.” Geoffrey stands up and clears his throat. “We are leaving now,” he says. He might be repeating “How now brown cow”.

The waiter picks up a knife.

“Come on, Geoffrey!”

“Egon Ronay will hear of this.”

“Geoffrey!” I will remember that terrible man standing at the door and shouting “Schweinhunds!” after us till my dying day—in fact, I thought it was going to be my dying day.