Low life
A very present help
Jeffrey Bernard
It doesn't get any better. This morning the lovely Irish home help came in to dress me and wash me, and when she shoved the flannel and soap under my left armpit, I think she broke my arm again. I went back to bed and she made me a cup of tea and, forced to lean slightly on my left elbow, I think I probably did that in again. I am feeling fairly sorry for myself. And lying in bed, I find myself trying to recollect the self-pity of years and years ago.
This nasty emotion crept in when my mother first sent me away to boarding school, so that she could continue to earn the money required not only for my board- ing school, but for my brothers' schools. The good thing about them was that over a period of time those schools made me as hard as steel, so that when I say I'm in the dumps now it is only because of physical pain. That will go in two weeks' time, and I shall no doubt find another opportunity to fall down another steep flight of stairs, and I hope that I can avoid falling on my back.
The temper gets shorter with discomfort, and I find that I have to bite my tongue not to snap at the lovely home help. Yesterday I remarked that the tea she made for me was too weak. She said, 'Never mind, I'll put it in a smaller pot.' The waitress in the Groucho Club answered in the same way two days ago when I made the same com- plaint. How incredibly illogical. Can you make a large vodka weaker or stronger by putting it in a coffee cup or a bucket?
These little things bother me because 1 can hardly sleep. And now all my concen- tration, mental energy and will are being spent on how I can find somebody to go to Brewer Street for me to buy a cod fillet, which is just about the only thing I can think of that will fall off the bone and not need two arms to carve.
What this boring accident has done has made me revert to the most dull and incredibly trivial essentials. I can think of nothing else. How do I pull my trousers up? How can I speak into a telephone with a drink and a cigarette in the same hand as the telephone, all of which are essential for making silly calls? And now I have two books on the equally silly subject of racing coming out today. It is all awful. The Fourth Estate have brought out my paper- back, Jeffrey Bernard is Still Unwell, and have failed through lack of courtesy and manners to send me a copy. PubliShers, doctors, agents, editors and occupational therapists are all a load of wankers and parasites. Only the Irish home help is a comfort of sorts.
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