Following on the lack of athleticism theme, back in my University days, in a moment of madness, I was persuaded to
join the University Officer Training Corps (OTC). The
persuasion came in the form of a new friend, Chrissy, who resided in the same
Halls of Residence and also happened to be a fully paid up member of CND. Some
might argue that these were contradictory pastimes, but Chrissy saw the OTC as a means of keeping her
overdraft in check. Cadets were to be paid fifty quid a weekend to dress up as
trees, paint their faces with mud and crawl around fields playing soldiers. How bad could
it be? Especially, as it also provided a cheap bar and a supply of fit young men in uniform!
As it transpired, very bad indeed! Never having been sporty, at school, I'd always been the last one picked for teams, brought up the rear in cross country and never once managed to clear the high jump pole. Therefore, even the thought of running 5 miles with full pack and rifle, before completing an assault course incorporating at least two 6-foot walls, was not exactly my idea of heaven. I made Goldie Hawn, in her role as Private Benjamin, look worthy of a Military Cross.
My inadequacies were highlighted when I was caught talking on parade by the Regimental Sergeant Major. He ordered me to the floor and demanded ten press-ups. The trouble was I was incapable of doing even one, and to the hysterical sniggers of fellow Cadets, as I collapsed in a heap on the floor, the Sergeant Major said in a very loud voice:
'You're supposed to be doing press-ups - NOT making love!'
Crikey, it occurred to me at the time that, if this was how you were meant to do it, it was no wonder it had not been a spectacular success when I tried it out with Mohair Man.
The mad moment, when I was persuaded to sign up to spend Wednesday evenings and weekends playing trees were to have a considerable impact on my future romantic future...
I had been an Officer Cadet for five months. True to form, I brought up the rear on route march, fell off walls on several assault courses, screamed very loudly when ordered to cam up in a field full of slugs (for the uninitiated this means plastering your face and any other visible flesh with mud and sticking any available branches around your person – this was where the dressing up as a tree bit came in). I'm phobic about slugs. Yes. I know it's irrational - they can hardly chase me - but, I just am....
However, there was one silver lining. I was finally getting picked for 'teams'. At Christmas camp I was the only female Cadet picked for overnight guard duty. Great! Instead of limitless cheap Christmas spirit and a warm comfy bed, I spent the night in thermal long johns and combat gear patrolling the perimeter fence.
There was, however, one advantage of my new role - dashing guys in uniforms and the 'End of Basic Training Dinner' was fast approaching. It wasn't really the done thing to attend these events unaccompanied.
Clearly, inviting Mohair Man was not an option and I was in something of a dilemma as to who to take. My red Filofax wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with eligible attractive men, and even the few names it did hold could not necessarily be relied upon to behave appropriately at a formal dinner. Most of them belonged to the Rugby Club, so the only things they could truly be relied upon was to throw bread rolls and burst into a rendition of "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" during the Colonel's speech.
Then it happened.The Sexy Soldier, who my 19 year-old self came to regard as the Love of My Life (Mark I), came into my life. He was charismatic, charming and one of the most popular Cadets in my year and he asked me to the event of the year! I could not believe my luck. Apparently, he noticed me at Christmas camp, after I'd been dragged round a 3 mile run by my super fit platoon commander, negligently discharged my rifle of the range and fallen off a 5 foot wall. With my puce-coloured face and dirty combat gear, I bore more than a passing resemblance to an upside down beetroot by the end of this ordeal.
The first time he clocked this particularly attractive specimen of vegetable-hood, I was laughing hysterically at myself, with tears streaming down my cheeks. In truth, what were the alternatives? Shooting myself ? After all, that would not have been difficult considering my aptitude with a rifle and I did have one handy, - or laughing at myself which seemed like the adult way in which to deal with my complete humiliation in the military arena. At least knowing he found me attractive, looking like a purple salad vegetable, I hasd little to live up too.
We arranged to meet up before the Dinner and agreed he'd meet me at 8.30 at my Uni accommodation and we'd then meet some OTC mates at the pub; not the most romantic first date but, for all I cared, he could have suggested a date at the local bus stop!
After an afternoon spent plucking and preening, admittedly, I was ready far earlier than the agreed time. Two hours earlier in fact but, after what seemed like an eternity, the clock finally hit 8.30pm. I waited ...and waited ... and ninety-three minutes after the appointed time gave up hope, removed my make-up and climbed into my pyjamas. Ninety-nine minutes after the appointed time he appeared! He apologised, he'd been rock climbing. I stupidly forgave him. How could I not when he smiled at me in that utterly disarming way? Instead of telling him to go and jump of the very cliffs he'd been climbing, I hastily got dressed and we just made it to the pub for last orders, only to be greeted by a group of drunken fellow Cadets, cheering raucously as we entered.
However, he did try and redeem himself later, by suggesting moonlit stroll in the Peak District. Well that was how he sold it anyway. We obviously had different ideas about what constituted a romantic stroll as when we arrived, he deftly retrieved his climbing tackle from the boot of his battered, yellow, VW Golf and announced that night climbs were the most challenging! My part-time University career as a climbing widow had begun…
Despite the inauspicious start, we did date for eight whole months and had a lot of fun. It was, however, getting increasingly difficult to explain to my parents why, when they called at some unearthly hour on a weekend morning that I was nowhere to be found in my halls of residence. Usually, because I was snuggled up in Sexy Soldier's bed.
So it was that I decided the time had come to put the cricketing fox incident, and my parents' views on sex before marriage, behind me and tell my parents in a grown-up fashion that I was having a grown-up relationship with a man I loved. After all, we had discussed it and he had assured me that he was very serious about me.
The inevitable huffs and puffs from the parental camp would soon subside and, if sleeping with a boyfriend without magical gold wedding band in situ was the worst thing I ever did then surely my parents could still be proud of their first born. After all it was my first act of rebellion - I'd passed all my exams, been a perfect daughter and never even smoked a fag behind the bike sheds at school. Thinking about it, I'd had even run the Grange Hill 'Just say No to Drugs' campaign! What more could they ask?
So I did it. I told them. I was an adult. I was in a serious relationship. I loved him.We were sleeping together. Phew....and relax....
It was unfortunate that later that evening, he had an announcement of his own to make. He was leaving me, he was too young for anything serious, but there was very definitely no-one else...
Two weeks later, I discovered he was sleeping with my platoon sergeant from Summer camp who'd I thought so cool when she produced Mars bars, hidden in her knickers, so we would not starve on the survival exercise!
Sadly, I did not know at the time that she was also interested in having something else entirely in her knickers and it was not made of chocolate coated caramel… NEXT!
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