The Hugging Saint

A correspondent has sent me an intriguing news story about an elderly Indian woman who goes around the world hugging people. Amma, the Divine Mother, offers her open-armed blessing to all who queue to meet her. On a good day she can deliver 200 hugs per hour, which is quicker than a cattle rancher can geld and brand his herd. My females hooted with laughter when I told them about her. 

“Why don’t those fools come to us?” they jeered. “Our hugs squeeze parts that old women cannot reach!” 

“Don’t be so cocksure,” I retorted. “Her embraces have a spiritual quality that yours lack, which is why she is revered as a saint by her followers. All you can do is grope and crush. Don’t forget what happened to that American footballer you tried to get friendly with.” 

 “He was a pussy!” they barked contemptuously, before wandering off to look for a baboon to molest. 

Hugging etiquette in human societies is a fascinating subject. There are so many ambivalent situations where no one is quite sure whether a hug is appropriate. Consider the question of man-on-man hugging. In Latin countries, it is perfectly normal for buddies to greet each other in that fashion, as long as a safe air corridor is maintained between the trousers. But Anglo-Saxon men are only supposed to do it if they’re gay or work in show business. Women, of course, can cuddle like koalas in any part of the world. No one thinks it's foreplay unless there's bumping and grinding going on.

Another interesting grey area is whether pre-pubescent boys appreciate being hugged by women. It seems to depend on the context. My old circus chum, Smacker Ramrod, was sent to an English boarding school at the age of 8. He told me that being hugged by Matron was one of the few consolations of a miserable incarceration. 

“She saw it as her duty to comfort homesick boys and would cuddle the ones who weren’t too grubby or obnoxious,” he explained. “Fortunately, I passed the test.” 

“How lucky for you, Smacker,” I remarked. “But surely her maternal snuggles ceased when you were no longer a new boy. She wouldn’t believe you were permanently homesick, would she?” 

“Yeah, but I came up with other excuses,” he said. “I once got my sister to write me a letter saying the dog had died. That worked like a charm.” 

“Good heavens, Smacker!” I exclaimed. “Were it not for the pre-existing canine theme, I would call you a sly dog! Did you not suffer from pangs of guilt in procuring Matron’s motherly embrace through deception?” 

“Not really,” he said. “It didn’t do her any harm and it did me a lot of good. Once you get used to burying your face in a woman’s bosom, you do whatever you have to to make it happen again.” 

I offered no objection to this pragmatic ethical formula. When a willing bosom makes contact with a willing face, the why’s and the wherefore’s are of minor importance.

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Jolly boating weather

A correspondent accuses me of being a toady to the English upper classes, citing several posts in which a titled lady or gentleman has either saved the day or provided timely advice. My defence is that I can only write about what I have experienced. It so happens that the aristocrats I have encountered possessed admirable qualities, be it resourcefulness, stoic determination, good humour or simply a firm bottom. And while there are surely many toffee-nosed swine among their number, it has thus far been my good fortune to avoid them. (Lord Angus Fartwell may be the sole exception, although I suspect he is an impostor.)

The first patrician to cross my path arrived on the scene in my early days with the circus. She was the daughter of a Baronet and her name was Millicent. Trained as both a nurse and a masseuse, she had a job at England’s premier boarding school for boys. She was seconded to us for a summer season, pending the appointment of a permanent circus doctor. Millicent was a woman of early middle-age, full of figure with a handsome face and flawless complexion. Although unwed – and consequently childless – I would describe her bust as maternal.

Oddly enough, it was the circus dwarves who were most intrigued by her. She was not at all perturbed by their appearance, nor intimidated by their brusque behaviour, which seemed to impress them. Maybe they reminded her of the schoolboys she was used to tending. I noticed that one muscle-bound manikin called Edgar was a frequent visitor to her trailer for rub-downs and perk-ups.

“I know she wants me,” I overheard him saying to one of his bow-legged comrades. “She’s seen me in my underpants and knows I’m not small where it counts. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be waiting for her in the pavilion.”

The pavilion of which he spoke had been loaned to the circus for its bathing facilities. Millicent showered there every morning at precisely thirty minutes past six, when virtually everyone else was sound asleep. Being an early riser, I had seen her stride purposefully from her trailer in her dressing gown, with towel over shoulder and shopping bag in hand, the latter no doubt containing the shampoos, gels and lotions that women apply on such occasions.

I resolved to be close at hand next morning, lest the dwarf’s ignoble scheme give rise to an untoward incident. So shortly after daybreak, I assumed a strategic position on the far side of the pavilion, beneath an open ventilating window. Although this denied me a view of the action, I would certainly hear the accompanying dialogue (and other noises). Peering round the edge of the building, I presently spied Edgar approaching alone. When he was inside, I heard him take off his boots and make unpleasant puffing noises. I began to imagine the surprise he had in store for Millicent and my nostrils twitched in distaste. A little while later, I heard another person enter. I held my breath and listened intently.

There was a wordless exclamation, which sounded like the noise a woman might make on seeing a dog licking its private parts. This was surely Millicent. But before she could utter a word, Edgar made his pitch:

“No one knows I’m here,” he panted huskily. “If you lie on the floor I can keep going for as long as you want.”

There was a pregnant silence of no more than five seconds, in which Millicent appeared to be formulating a reply to this unexpected offer.

“You ghastly gnome!” she cried indignantly. “Do you really think you can seduce me with that…that THING?! I grew up in the country and watched my father tease stallions when I was a girl in pigtails! Put on your clothes and get out of here at once, you stupid naked little man!”

There were no more words spoken, but I surmised that Edgar was following the instructions given to him, and soon heard him stomp out of the place briskly. Millicent then turned on the water in preparation for her shower, and I crept around the building to return to my trailer. Before I had gone twenty paces, I was halted in my tracks by the following words ringing out from the pavilion:

Jolly boating weather!
And a hay harvest breeze!
Blade on the feather!
Shade off the trees!

I could scarcely believe my ears. How could a woman indulge herself in a merry sing-song so soon after such an unsettling experience? I bit my lip and gulped before resuming my journey. Ever since that day, I have held upper class English ladies in no small measure of awe. Anyone who can sing the Eton Boating Song five minutes after being propositioned by a naked dwarf has the respect of Gorilla Bananas.

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