Amazing Grace

Whether I’m clad in jeans, over-sized shirt and no makeup while slugging wine at my neighbour’s kitchen table, or dressed to the nines to hob-nob among the elite, as Thénardier sang in Les Miz, I am queen of my own society. But the fact that I’m blogging about it is a sure sign that things recently went horribly wrong.

As I’ve mentioned before, I can talk to anyone and anything. Waltzing into a room, if I can’t see anyone I know, I sidle up to some unsuspecting gent or a gaggle of gals, and thar she blows. It can work out a treat, like the time I chatted to a chap who ran a rare book shop. Do you restore books? I asked hopefully, having in mind a couple of huge dilapidated family bibles that dated from the 1870s and were in worse condition than the Dead Sea Scrolls. No, he said, but I know a man who does. The bibles now look as good as new and lie proudly on my sideboard, where no one’s allowed to touch them (except me).

Another time, an impromptu conversation started off well enough with a pleasant exchange of pleasantries. After a while (his third glass) he showed his true colours – a dirty shade of red (is there another shade?) mixed with green that resulted in a you-know-what-shade of brown. Ironically, he was wearing a brown shirt that he was trying to hide under a seen-better-days jacket. I disappeared from his personal space as surreptitiously as I’d arrived. I should have been more curious as to what he was doing at such a gathering, but self-preservation wins every time.

Last week, for a change Hubby and I went to a College-do together, a dressed-to-the-nines affair. My green, ankle-length, lacey/sparkly dress, cleverly cut to mask a plethora of middle-aged sins, did the biz. It was several years old and not that expensive either, but the handbag and most of the jewellery made up for it with room to spare. The earrings were as cheap as chips, but the design and colour work so well with the dress, the impact is one of couture. Hubby’s DJ wasn’t half bad either.

The taxi arrived promptly and deposited us at the College without incident. We collected gowns from the Porters’ Lodge, and headed to the Chapel for the special service. Plenty of people we knew so no need to hijack any strangers. Having satisfied the soul, we enjoyed pre-dinner drinks in the Upper Hall. 

“Love your earrings,” said one of the (female) Fellows.

“Cheap as Chips,” I responded chirpily and was about to show her my bracelet when I got distracted.

I checked the seating plan and was delighted that I would be seated next to VIP. I’ve known him for years but only enjoyed the briefest of exchanges, so I was looking forward to an in-depth conversation. 

If only.

Hubby and I found our seats on top table in the dining hall, briefly said hello to those around and settled back to listen to the sung-grace by the chapel choir. I bowed my head out of respect for the grace. I caught sight of my bare arm, which should have been adorned by a gobsmackingly expensive bracelet that had been there when we left the hotel room. I checked my lap, the sides of my chair, the floor, my handbag. Nothing. When the grace had concluded, I caught Hubby’s eye and pointed to my bare wrist. He raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “It’s insured,” then turned to talk to the lady next to him. At which point, VIP turned to talk to me, but all I wanted to do was retrace my steps and find my blessed bracelet.

I knew that wasn’t an option without ruining the carefully constructed seating plan and putting VIP’s nose out of joint. So deep breath, big smile, and lots of lash-fluttering, even though my heart wasn’t in it. Instead of being warm and witty, I was dull and divisive. VIP was a former MEP and very much pro-EU, which I had known for a while and had been prepared to be gracious for this one evening. As it happens, I wasn’t. I tried to explain that I was just playing devil’s advocate; I wasn’t. I was being my true-to-form, anti-EU devilish self. Neither did I do the meal justice. I felt sorry for the waiter who had to remove barely touched platefuls from in front me. I probably didn’t help matters by repeating, “Thank you that was lovely,” after every course. He knew to keep my glass topped up though.

Eventually, I couldn’t contain myself any longer and asked the lady opposite – the acting Development Director – if the College had a lost-and-found office. I explained what I’d lost and she responded immediately, “Leave it with me,” and disappeared. I felt bad because I’d interrupted her cheese course. Then, to make matters worse, a former Master asked me how I was getting on with my PhD. 

“We’re so proud of you tackling such an exciting project,” she added. 

Oh glory be. I had to confess that the PhuD had gone PhuT, but I wasn’t worried about that because I’d just lost my gobsmackingly expensive bracelet. Right, she said, and immediately disappeared. The evening was beginning to feel like an Agatha Christie mystery. I’d tell you which one if I were allowed to write Ten Little Niggers but I’m not so I won’t.

It didn’t take long for the Bursar, Development Director, Communications Director, duty Porter, Alumni Society secretary and former Master, armed with torches and reassurances, to help me retrace my steps. Hubby punctuated proceedings with, “It’s insured.”

As Sis commented the next day when I texted her what had happened, “You sure know how to make yourself the centre of attention.” 

Although I was exceedingly grateful for their concern, I didn’t appreciate the repeated questioning regarding when and where I’d gone to the loo, particularly their collective disbelief when I said that I hadn’t been the whole evening. Yes, losing my bracelet was that distracting.

Nothing turned up. The Porter returned to the lodge to phone the taxi company and ask them to check the car, and he had to write an incident report as well. I’ve been an idiot, not robbed, I entreated him to no avail. Everyone else dissipated, and Hubby and I strolled back to the hotel because I needed the fresh air and thought my painful shoes were a just punishment for my stupidity. Outside the hotel, we looked around the roads and pavements where the taxi had picked us up. Inside, we kept our eyes glued to the ground as we walked through reception and took the lift to the third floor, walked along the corridor and around the corner. 

There! Outside our hotel room on the carpet was something notoriously sparkly. It was curled up comfortably as if fast asleep. 

“Come to Mamma,” I cried. “You once were lost but now you’re found.”

Fearing I was having one of my ‘God moves in mysterious ways’ moments, Hubby said through gritted teeth, “It’s only a bracelet and it’s insured.”

I phoned the Porter, who sounded closer to tears with relief than I was, probably because he doesn’t like writing incident reports. I also emailed the good news to the Bursar, Development Director, Communications Director, Alumni Society secretary and former Master, every one of them a College VIP with much better things to do and more important people to spend time with than silly little me. So why did they? Because they’re also VKPs – Very Kind Persons – which is why the College is like a second family to me. And it’s amazing the number of other alumni who feel the same.

A couple of days later, less glamorously attired in PJs and slippers, munching toast and marmite at the kitchen table, we were flicking through the newspapers when I read out a headline to Hubby: Woman robbed in London – loses suitcase with £250,000 of jewellery and handbags.

“What on earth was she doing with stuff like that in her suitcase?” I asked in disbelief.

“At least she was mugged and didn’t just drop it on the floor,” Hubby replied nonchalantly.

I waited for him for to say ‘she would have been insured’. But he picked up on the fact that I’d stopped chewing and was glowering at him, so he drowned his bravado with a swig of tea instead, while I sang, “God will your shield and portion be to help your life endure.”