Low life
Pelvic moan
Jeffrey Bernard
Ididn't in fact break my hip again. I slipped up and fell on it, agony enough, and I cracked my pelvic bone. One of these days somebody is going to sue Westminster Council over their uneven paving stones. Smirnoff are not responsible for all the accidents that happen during the long hob- ble to the grave.
Anyway, in the morning I could not move and if I hadn't had an extension to my telephone put by my bed I should prob- ably be rotting in it now. My doctor fixed it for an ambulance to take me to University College Hospital and I was admitted as being in need of what is now called 'pain control'. Pain is too bland a word for what I felt. The nurses on the orthopaedic ward welcomed me as an old friend, as indeed I am with two of them who have been to my flat on occasion for a drink ever since the initial hip fracture last October. They like the Grouch() Club too, which should make them honorary members in order to sedate members such as Jay Landesman and Julie Burchill.
On day two I was helped into a wheel- chair and wheeled out to the landing so that I could smoke. That landing by the lifts is what the hospital calls a 'designated smoking area' and it is the pits, an awful alternative to lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. The wheelchairs of the amputees huddle around a large ashtray which is ignored by most patients and the win- dowsills are lined with old paper cups and empty fizzy drink cans. You could sit there for a year without having a conversation. The only subjects discussed are the hospital routine, going-home dates and details of individual ills, operations and pains. At night an old wino would lurch about in search of dog-ends. The security must be almost non-existent. These tramps creep in through the casualty department in search of warmth and a pinch of tobacco and they could easily rob most patients on that floor who are physically helpless.
But it is the patients who get up my nose the most: readers of the Sun, football fans, moaners and men who would take an oath on Reader's Digest. I sometimes wonder if it is only the ugly and mindless who get sick. I must have looked pretty sick myself because one day a visitor approached me and asked if I could direct her to the mor- tuary. There was one man on my ward who was so incoherent that after a while I asked
him not to bother to speak to me. At first I thought his mumblings were of East Euro- pean origin but it turned out that he came from Edinburgh. It took him 15 minutes to explain to me that he couldn't speak prop- erly because he had never bothered to make the effort. That is appalling although there are those I know in Soho and the Government who likewise should never have bothered. He chain-smoked, stared into the distance and then would make a noise like an animal. His pyjamas were glued to him with sweat, but I couldn't feel sorry for him. He probably couldn't have been bothered to feel sorry for himself.
One consolation during my stay was that the registrar on my ward allowed me to drink, saying that he would rather I did than prescribe for withdrawal symptoms. But the food was so awful that I ignored my diabetes and ate a mountain of diges- tive biscuits. My blood sugar went very high but it was better than hunger. There was an American woman in my ward who had foolishly come over for a holiday — Saraje- vo or Belfast would have done. She broke a wrist when she arrived at Heathrow and was presented with half a slice of cold toast for her first breakfast. For that she was paying £160 a day. I thought the toast was interesting in a way, being what I imagine a slice• of carpet that had had some butter smeared on it the day before must taste and feel like in the mouth.
There were reassuring aspects about my stay, though. Mr Cobb, the consultant sur- geon and the man who sculpts with titani- um, told me with some irony that I should make myself at home. There will always be a bed and I think he expects me to return. Looking at X-rays of people he has operat- ed on which are pinned to the notice board I can't help but think of him as being the Isambard Kingdom Brunel of surgery. And I mean that in the most complimentary way. I am saving my left hip for him.
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