Low life
Iron rations
Jeffrey Bernard
She who would iron 14 shirts at one standing has been described by her daugh- ter as being too compliant. I think this means obedient and it just isn't true. I haven't asked or expected of a woman that she should lift a finger for me since I was last in the position to provide for one and that was about 20 years ago. All I expect is that they wake me up when the waiter brings the bill. Shirt ironing is a voluntary occupation and it is very good therapy for a seething mind. It is also a pretty rare occurence. Ever since 1960 or thereabouts, when the Beatles and feminism came to power and destroyed the civilisation I was rather fond of, women have proved their independence by not only not ironing shirts but by not doing anything for half the human race. I think I might open an account with a proper laundry. I can't take any more recriminations from 17-year-olds for the sake of a stiff collar.
Otherwise it has been a pretty normal week. That's to say hardly any work has been done and yet I managed to get to Newmarket for the 2,000 Guineas. It was a very odd and very good day. I didn't set foot on the course but spent the afternoon in a friend's house eating and drinking and watching the wretched racing crowd on the television. What a bunch they are, the men with their strange hats and the women with their Hermes scarves. I wonder who does their ironing. But the strange thing was that I took an ex-wife with me, the one who is the mother of my daughter. This must have been the result of my having an extremely compassionate nature while she on her part likes lame dogs and probably should have been a vet. It's rather puzzling to me that I manage to stay friends with ex-wives and ex-girlfriends and I rather fear it may be because they consider me harmless like a defused bomb. Or maybe a snake with the venom removed.
Whenever I go to Newmarket I usually drop in to see another ex-wife who runs a club in Cambridge. I think she dreads race meetings at Newmarket because of my lurching into her bar after the last race. It probably brings back the most awful memories for her. When we were married we used to have an open house on Derby and Grand National days. I would cook a load of paella and a lot of friends including a bookmaker would come round and we had some jolly days. It's funny, I can't quite remember just what went wrong with that particular marriage. I vaguely think that she fell in love with my best friend which would have been par for the course. He was a handsome devil and now I choose my friends more carefully. They are a very nasty ugly bunch indeed. Think about it Would your wife go off with Norman? Not on your nelly. She'd cling on to you for dear life if she saw that man approach. But then they say that there is someone for everyone. I don't believe it. On the other hand the Japanese didn't have any trouble in recruiting kamikaze pilots during the war. And I suppose if I advertised for a woman with a steam iron and ironing board that someone might just step into the firing line. But, from now on, there are going to be fewer problems of that ilk in Soho. 'We now have a resident agony aunt. froll,a, Kurtz has moved to Soho and she wl" personally be lumbered with my wildest dreams, hopes, fears and shirts. I might even buy her an iron. Actually, there should be a mad competition to find the_ woman least likely to iron you a shirt. I would make Miriam Margolyes odds-on favourite, Vanessa Redgrave 5-4, Mrs Thatcher 2-1, Carmen Callil 7-2, Joanna Lumley 4-1, 100-8 bar. Although as w. e know ironing shirts is bourgeois revision.ist I could be doing Ms Callil a disfavour. Like, a lot of women I suspect she has a dreadful secret, i.e. she likes men. I have heard thet same thing said about Edna O'Brien that is mere hearsay from a waiter in We Gay Hussar. Meanwhile, I am down to MY last six shirts. Help.
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