Page 47 - BBHAC Winter 2014-15 Gazette web

Feature
A Year in the Life of a President’s Wife
Sheila Griffin (First Lady 2014-5)
To celebrate his
inauguration in March
last year Richard took me
to Chapter One for a meal
and told me that was the
standard of meals that
I could expect at the
various sporting venues
we would be attending.
Dear Reader, he lied!
Let me inform you that
Swansea Sports Stadium can
run to a mean cheese and
pickle sandwich, but alas,
no Michelin Star. That said,
fine wines were supplied
on the 14:45 train down to
soggy, frozen and windswept
Wales by Julie Asher-Smith
and accompanied by stem
ginger cookies, which Mike
Shepperd pressed on us every
few minutes. Rude to refuse.
Our first ‘official’ trip was to under the eaves? I’ll give you
Norwich and after catching
the 7am coach (I thought
there was only one 7 o’clock
in the day up until then) spent
a couple of hours listening to
the gentle sounds of teenagers
snoring – brought back
happy memories of travel
with our 2 when they weren’t
bickering or asking for the
loo every 5 miles. I spent a
very interesting day helping
(more probably hindering)
to officiate. My first hurdle
was to try to register the
team but as I didn’t know the
45
difference between track and
field (I do now!) I gave up and
asked Dave Cordell for help.
He was great and even taught
me how to use an EMD and
to wave at a nice man with a
very loud hooter. I did so well
that I was promoted to Mike
Davies’ class and under his
patient and expert tutelage I
progressed to measuring the
long and triple jumps, armed
only with a tape and screw
driver and received a couple
of ‘very goods’ for my efforts.
Before being made president,
Richard volunteered us to sell
the club kit, “Only a few vests
and tops. How much work can
that be?” If a vest measures
18" x 30" how many would
it take to fill one large study, ‘chorizo with a happy face’
half a spare double bedroom
and a huge storage cupboard
a clue, approximately £10,000
worth and like carriers bags
and metal coat hangers, they
breed in the dark. After a two-
week gestation period they
gave birth to tiny crop tops
that fit my granddaughter’s
teddy bear.
Taking on the organisation
of the Parris handicap
was marginally easier. All
I had to do was learn the
runners names (43 at the first
meeting) take their money,
give them change, issue them
with numbers and pins, write
anticipated times on the
reverse of the number, sprint
down to the start, then back
again for the President’s stop
watch that he’d forgotten and
stand, panting heavily in the
rain, while Richard shouted
numbers at me. At the finish,
another quick sprint to HQ
and then 30 mins at the
computer, concentrating
hard and trying to ignore
“What position was I?” from
aforementioned runners.
In my life I have been
asked to do a number of
strange things – extracting
a Cub Scout who wedged
his head in the railings of
Buckingham Palace, dressing
up as a chicken to give out
Easter Eggs and selecting a
for a customer but a meet at
Norman Park capped them
all. At the pole vault I was
asked to hold on to the bar
with a piece of tape to stop it
blowing away in the gale force
winds. I swear I did not hold
it any tighter for our team.
After a grueling six and a half
hour car journey to Mansfield
the night before, we settled