Despite an aversion to following in our father’s footsteps, my sister has a definite penchant for falling into self-made predicaments and emerging unscathed. Take the time she met British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.

I’ll begin by saying that Sis is drop-dead gorgeous. One of those upscale cosmetic firms hired her to market their fragrances. Sis was good at it. She won a trip to Atlanta and a three- night stay at one of those Buckhead hotels where they turn your bedcovers down for you, leaving a foil-wrapped chocolate and rose atop a pillow molded in the shape of the Palace of Versailles.

Highlighting the conference was an evening of inspiring speeches by the rich and famous. This ego festival was intended to juice up the sales force so it would dream big and sell even more.

Sis was really into the swing of things when she came downstairs to hear Margaret Thatcher’s speech. You remember Mrs. Thatcher, first woman to serve as British prime minister. She who was the wartime leader, who, Churchill-like, led the British Empire to victory over Argentina (or was it Paraguay?) in the Falkland Islands War (-or was it the Orkney Islands?  I never can remember).

Like many beautiful people seem to do, Sis was running late. Decked out in the famous little black dress and sporting a $200 hairdo, she got off on the wrong floor.  Exiting the elevator on the mezzanine, she hurried down the stairs clickety-click in her four-inch heels, headed for the giant auditorium which was off the main lobby. Then it happened. Her heel caught in the carpet on one of the treads.

The crowd of attendees, late check-ins and bellmen watched with startled stares and open mouths as Sis slid down the entire flight with the style of Jackie Robinson stealing home. At the bottom, her glide continued across the marble floor for another twenty feet. With her tiny purse held instinctively high, and her hem accumulating well above her knees, she came to rest at the base of a robin’s egg blue column with a Corinthian capital. Guests crowding the lobby stared with open mouths and fell into astonished silence, then gasped in unison.

Hotel employees rushed to Sis’ aid. A particularly solicitous young bellman insisted that she not move until emergency medical help arrived.

The scene was out of a nineteen thirties musical comedy. Sis accepted all the attention as her due. Striking her best pose, she lay there, surrounded by a dozen young men in fancy hotel uniforms waiting for the unnecessary ambulance to arrive.

Suddenly, accompanied by thunderous applause, an entourage of corporate blue suits and camera- wielding news people, Mrs. Thatcher exploded through the double auditorium doors upon the tableau that had Sis as its centerpiece. It only took her a moment to take in the situation.

As the sea of bellmen surrounding Sis parted like the Red Sea before her gaze, Mrs. Thatcher sniffed slightly, arranged her face in an expression of concern and said, “Are you all right dear?” To this Sis replied “Yes,” with not the slightest bid for sympathy.  “Well, there you are,” said Mrs. Thatcher in benediction, and then exited stage right without hesitation, followed by a crowd of security police and miscellaneous hangers-on. You should hear Sis tell it.  She has met all the best people.

Note: This piece in a slightly different form was first published in the Lake Arrowhead News in my column “Kitchens Encounters.”