Nigel Foster
Friday night and the Mess is buzzing. A sudden hush – Lt Col and Mrs Goss have arrived for a morale-boosting visit. No married pads, only singles present. I have just started a sports parachute course.
Family Goss approach, with Mick Conway following. Or possibly shepherding them in my direction. We all remember Mick's sense of humour. Dave Peaks was to my right, head turned away as he wiped blood from his forehead with one hand while trying to hide a very, very, dented empty can with the other.
Madame Goss parle. (We've met before). "Good evening, Corporal Foster. So, you are learning to parachute. Tell me – are you going for a jump this weekend?" I'm pretty sure Peter Goss winced, but otherwise kept a straight face. Not so Mick, standing behind them; and such an innocent smile, too. Everyone else began sniggering, loudly. Even Beauty the dog. . . who was wearing a cast on her front leg on which someone had written the words 'FEED ME' in large letters.
Luckily, and with incredible presence of mind, I saved the situation by choking on my drink. Apparently Tiger is actually good for silk blouses, or so I think madame said. Someone still owes me a beer!
