RICHARD Gasquet was running rings round Andy Murray. Two sets down and snarling like councillors voting to close their own local secondary schools, the Mouth of Dunblane was about to crash out of Wimbledon. Despairing, I was ready to seek solace in the arms of Liz MacDonald in the Rovers Return. But my wee scrubber had abandoned the vacuuming and was glued. It was just too difficult to watch. I was embarrassed for him. For Scotland.
Toe-curling embarrassment can strike anywhere. In Bayhead post office the other day, a couple of schoolgirls snorted at me as I queued for the attentions of super-stamper and super-licker Marianne Flett. Wee beggars, I thought, or something similar. Outside, I was told off by a kindly fellow for taking the mickey out of the fine folk in his Church. He is, he claimed, a happy, non-grumpy adherent of the Free Church (Continuing). So it was him, I said. I’d heard there was one. Oops, there I go again.
The Continuing guy continued on his way, only to shout back loudly: “By the way, Mr Maciver, do you know your fly is undone?” A score of eyes swivelled to find who was airing their undies. I twirled round 180 degrees, as you do instinctively on learning of a downstairs wardrobe malfunction.
That brought me face to face with several senior ladies heading for Charley Barley’s black pudding emporium. Even their eyes were straying south. Not only was my zip wide open but my white shirt had taken on a life of its own. It was protruding prominently through the opening. That’s why the girls were snorting. Good job I wasn’t wearing my pink one.
It was a relief to hear how someone else got a very red face. Let’s call him Malcolm. That’s not his name, but I have been warned I will never get fresh clams again if I shame him. Although not a regular churchgoer himself, his wife asked him to take their daughter to Sunday school. He was to just sit in the same seat as last time and the kids would be summoned through to the Sunday school when it was time.
Taking their usual places near the front, Malcolm noticed “white pillowcases”, as he put it, on the front pews. Although people usually sit in their favourite places, this time some of his usual companions were farther back while others who normally sat elsewhere were in the smart, draped front pews.
A teacher sat behind him. After exchanging whispered pleasantries, the teacher asked when Malcolm began taking communion. He must be thinking of someone else, thought our lad. Then the penny dropped. He was sitting in the communion pews. I’m offski, said Malcolm, even although he’s from Lochs, not Leningrad. But just then, the minister and his entourage entered. Pulling Malcolm back down in his seat, the teacher told him not to clamber over innocent worshippers, but just to sit tight.
Malcolm was utterly panic-stricken. Obviously, he could not have even a sniff of the communion stuff. What could he do? He was stuck in the middle of some obviously very devout communicants. Crippling embarrassment chilled his very soul. The salver of bread arrived and polite words failed him. He could only squeak: “No, I don’t want it.”
In the stony silence, those scandalous words thundered round the church. I. Don’t. Want. It.
Communicants don’t refuse. The bewildered bearer repeated the offer as our Malcolm turned crimson. When the pole-axed bread man finally moved on, sheer unadulterated relief swept over Malcolm . . . until the man with the big goblet bore down on him. He hadn’t seen one that fancy since Indiana Jones went after the Holy Grail on that last crusade.
As hundreds of wide, unblinking eyes burned into the back of his neck, Malcolm also declined the plonk. Again, the offer was repeated with more insistence. Clamping his lips tightly shut over his bone-dry mouth, in case the bejewelled chalice was suddenly raised to them, our gallant lad could only shake his head wildly, gesturing to the kindly old dispenser to go and dispense somewhere else.
Malcolm perspires recalling those awful, mortifying minutes. But his secret is safe with me. I will clam up if he will.
Some embarrassment is premature, thankfully. Andy Murray made a humongous comeback and thrashed the Frenchman on Monday night.
My featherlight figure leaping up and down on the sofa as he blew the Gasquet away snapped something down below.
No, not another wardrobe misadventure. I now face a furniture repair bill. That’s also embarrassing.
Andy meets Spanish fireball Rafael Nadal in today’s quarter finals. Now that Andy has Popeye-style muscles, I’ll probably reduce that couch to matchwood and also take out an armchair or two while I’m at it.
Published in the Press and Journal on July 2, 2008
