Low life
A bleeding shame
Jeffrey Bernard
Iwas irritated last week to read here that `Jeffrey Bernard is unwell'. I had, in fact, had an accident which is quite a different thing. Unwell implies drunk and would to God I had been drunk. In that event I would not have been in agony. I got hit by a Royal Mail van in Brewer Street which then went on its merry way without stop- ping. My head hit the pavement with an almighty crack and was cut in four places and, worse than that, my right-hand rib cage was smashed and I had six broken ribs. That caused an internal haemorrhage.
Luckily, I am not short of blood but the pain is still making me feel sick. The Westminster Hospital kept me in for a week to make sure I didn't get pneumonia and at least they were not as mean as some hospitals when it came to dishing out painkillers. Six injections into the back with an extremely long needle are not nice if you are squeamish. I am not, thank heavens. I stood next to the charming consultant as he put the X-ray of my chest on to the light box and he said, 'God almighty. Thank God it's your chest and not mine.' I liked that. No bullshit.
So here I am at liberty again and writing to you from the Groucho Club where they are temporarily very kindly taking care of me. And yesterday, three hours after leaving the hospital, a motorbike missed me by about six inches as I was crossing Old Compton Street. Somebody up there must hate me.
But what a strange time I had of it in the Westminster. We were not allowed to smoke, of course, and those of us who wished to had to do so sitting about on the landing by the lifts and outside the wards. I was one of the very few men on that floor who did so and I spent the week sur- rounded by the zaniest bunch of chain- smoking women I have come across, all
'Ten pounds worth, please.'
patients from the gynaecological ward. They talked about nothing but their opera- tions and complaints and they seemed to really enjoy doing so. I was a little sur- prised that they talked to me so openly but it would have been one hell of a job to stop them. I could now draw you a detailed and accurate map of Mrs Griffin's fallopian tubes. I also know Mrs Carter's womb inside out and I wish I knew it better inside than out. One morning, a lady called Betty nudged me in the ribs — the left-hand side, thank God — and confided, `D'you know, Jeffrey, I've been bleeding since 10 March.' There was nothing to say to that. I finished my cigarette feeling suddenly sad- dened by the thought of how many wombs have been incinerated and washed out to sea in my own lifetime. We blokes have very few problems in that area, although I was alarmed a little to see, while watching the Test Match on the television the other day, a sentence flashed up on the screen when Sharma was out stating quite simply, `Sharma, two balls, one minute'. Quite.
Well, I suppose there aren't many hos- pitals left in London that I haven't been to now. The Westminster I rate quite highly and give it three crossed scalpels. I was lucky to be pestered a little by the press on my first day there because it prompted them to give me a private room. So at least, awake for most of the night, I didn't have to listen to the coughing, farting and moaning of the dying. A kind woman from the Daily Express brought me in a cassette player with a Mozart tape and that mixed with my vodka sips saved me. But the real angel of mercy was our own Jennifer Paterson who brought me a box of ice every morning. In a nasty hot week it nearly made me feel quite well.
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