DIARY P.D. JAMES
July and August are the months for the annual church fête, an institution which seems to hold its popularity despite the reduction in church-going. When I see how much hard work goes into the fete, I am sometimes tempted to wonder whether the comparatively modest return couldn't be more easily earned. But that, of course, is to overlook the subsidiary purposes: fun, competitiveness and the annual British challenge to the weather. Recently, I helped at a fête in Dorset where I volun- teered to tell fortunes. My method is to study the backs of hands and then the palms, a scrutiny which impresses the punter while providing plenty of informa- tion for an informed guess. The vicar, I think, was not entirely approving of my activities and I don't know that I blame him. The fortune-teller is part of the tradi- tional fun of the fair, but it is surprising how many people came into the tent obvi- ously prepared to take it all seriously. I don't think I did any harm. Those whose hands bore witness to a lifetime of toil for others were told that it was time to give some thought to their own lives and wishes. I hope they do. If the prognostication in Larkin's poem on church-going proves accurate, and eventually our churches become little more than museums or state- supported architectural curiosities, I won- der if the church fete will still continue with its origin shrouded in mystery — except for rumours that once it had something to do with the church roof.
There is no subject more boring at the dinner-table or anywhere else than one's efforts to slim. My own attempt to lose one-and-a-half stone is dictated less by van- ity (or so I tell myself) than by the realisa- tion that after the age of 70 it is sensible not to impose too great a burden on aging joints. But slimming, and particularly the giving up of butter and cream, isn't easy for my generation. To be born in 1920 means that for half one's life one has missed out on some of life's greatest culinary plea- sures. Before the war, English cooking, par- ticularly for the middle classes, was proba- bly as poor as it has ever been, quite apart from the restricted raw materials: fresh fruit and vegetables only in season, pasta eaten only as macaroni cheese or macaroni pudding, the rarer spices virtually unob- tainable. And then came the war with Wootton pie, Spam, dried egg, whale meat and the ubiquitous carrot which provided the staple for anything from soup to pud- ding. My generation can't possibly be per- suaded that any low-fat spread is a substi- tute for butter, that a raw apple is prefer- able to creme bailee, or that a glass of wine every other day adds to the satisfactions of
life. There is, of course, no magic formula for slimming; I eat differently and I eat less. I am suspicious, too, of the highly publi- cised, spectacular weight-losses which some people achieve. It would, I think, be instructive if there could be a photograph of a reunion of the Slimmers of the Year from three to eight years ago.
my elder daughter has followed a degree in philosophy with training as a mid- wife, I am more au fait with concerns and developments in that field than I would normally expect. Things certainly seem to have changed since she was born and, on the whole, very much for the better. My daughter belongs to a professional group who believe that normal childbirth should remain in the hands of midwives, that women should have the greatest possible choice about where they give birth and that too much technological intervention can be more harmful than helpful both to mother and child. When my daughters were born, nearly half a century ago, I remember that they were immediately held up by their ankles and briskly slapped on the bottom, a
'Tell you what — make it hest of three.'
practice which my daughter regards as bar- baric. However, this early initiation into what life is liable to do to one doesn't seem to have done either of them any harm. One change does intrigue me. When I gave birth, husbands were rigorously excluded from the delivery-room and were expected either to get on with their normal lives or, by tradition, nervously to pace the waiting- room. Now it seems that a man is regarded as an uncaring wimp if he isn't actually pre- sent when his child is born. My husband was a doctor, so no doubt he would have had a professional as well as a personal interest in the proceedings; but on the whole I would still prefer to manage alone with the help of my midwife. I know from young men of my acquaintance how much many of them have valued being with their wife at this time, but birth can be more dis- tressing for an unprofessional to witness than for the woman concerned, and I don't see why being present should be a test either of a man's masculinity or of his com- mitment to his partner and their child.
Now that the boards and committees on which I serve have gone into the sum- mer recess I can enjoy the enviable task of reading and re-reading some of our best modern literature in preparation for help- ing to judge the British Literature Prize this autumn. There is invariably controversy about any new literature prize. This one, the biggest in the United Kingdom, with a prize of £30,000, fills a gap in that previous- ly there has been no prize which honoured our major creative writers, not just for a single work but for the achievement of a lifetime. The prize was generally well- received following its launch at the end of May, partly no doubt because it is funded not from Arts Council money, which would indeed be difficult to justify, but by the gen- erosity of the David Cohen family charita- ble trust, in association with Coutts and Co. The private sponsorship of the arts has risen dramatically in the last six years from an estimated £15 million in 1984/85 to £57 million in 1991/92. Business sponsors are, of course, entitled to get some return in advertisement and prestige for their share- holders' money, and it is easy to criticise private sponsorship on the grounds that, with some notable exceptions, sponsors are interested only in the well known and accessible. But this objection seems to me perverse. Even if true, it means that public money is released for events which are innovative and might be less popular. Meanwhile, I am grateful to the David Cohen Trust for introducing me to some remarkable books. This encouragement to read and re-read is, of course, one of the main purposes of the prize.
Previous page
