Low life
Foot fault
Jeffrey Bernard
Here we are again. This time the Middle- sex. St Stephens has lost its appeal for me and the King George V ward here, not to be confused with the George Cinq, has more ambience than the Grenadian hattleaxe-staffed Sir Alfred Tennyson ward in Fulham (see 19 March issue). Here, tea is served by Malaysian charmers and I'd no Illore dream of throwing a half pound of butter at them than I would fly or break in- to a sweat. Yes, it's been a ridiculous week. From sublime Barbados to the Middlesex via Bow Street Magistrates Court where 1 appeared for chastising the staff and one rubber plant in the Raj of India restaurant in Old Compton Street. Fined flO with £15 damages and suffered one twisted knee get- ting into a squad car. After I limped out of court I was reminded of a particularly sore left foot. A pebble or a piece of coral on the beach the week before. Nothing much, but the next day my foot was raw, swollen, weeping and painful. Mindful of the diabetic's proneness to gangrene I popped into the clinic where they took one look and then bundled me into bed. I have been oc- casionally legless but I do like to have both feet on the ground.
Not much changes, least of all the medical profession. 1 was tucked up, put on an anti-biotic drip, X-rayed and God knows what. I lay there waiting for the inevitable first skirmish with the administering enemy. I hadn't long to wait. A young houseman, looking at my records, said, 'You drink and smoke a horrendous amount. Why do you drink?' I thought of saying, 'If you have to ask then you don't know.' But I replied, `To stop myself jogging.' I shook my head sadly at him and he got the message. What a silly question. How do these people qualify? Later that evening I was in con- siderable pain. The infection had swollen the glands in my groin and 1 asked a female late-duty doctor for some analgesic. She said okay and went off. Forty-five minutes later she returned with two aspirin. 1 couldn't believe it. She'd be a real wow at the Royal Marsden.
Today my right forearm looks like the treble 20 on a dart board. Never have 1 had so many needles stuck into me that missed. But what has amused me until now has been the way that nurses, when they inject or draw blood, always state the obvious. There they are with poised syringe about to plunge and they say, 'Just a little prick.' Half an hour ago when that happened it suddenly occurred to me that that dear nurse might have been referring to me.
Sadly, the patients never ever change. Are they provided by. some sort of agency? Is anyone worth talking to ever hospita- lised? I fear not. So very awful are the regulars in the day room that I've had to take up smoking in the lavatory again after all these years. Sun readers to a man, they stare vacantly at Hungarian children's car- toons all afternoon on the box, occasionally 'It's an objet, but is it d'art?' coughing and farting. And to think this is going to be the curtain-down scene for most of us. And, talking of curtain-down, it oc- curred to me that the last supper menu, quite literally, will be brown windsor soup and minced beef with cabbage and boiled old potatoes. But no expense is spared when it comes to food. Even the ice cream is sent up in the hot wagon. It would be a crime to cut back or destroy any of this and the dreadful Norman Fowler's ears should be burning. If they fell off I doubt whether any of the doctors or nurses here would care a jot. They're rightly upset. Perhaps I'm biased, but these people keep coming to my rescue. Yes, they hate Fowler and I fear we may have to learn how to come to our own rescues.
P.S. Fleet Street colleagues seem to have their wires crossed. When I mentioned last week the harridans who accom- panied me to Barbados I did not mean to include the delightful lady from the Sunday Telegraph. She was fun and got her shout. As in Macbeth there were only three witches in Barbados.
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