Low life
A foot wrong
Jeffrey Bernard
The past four weeks have been a taste of hell. I thought I had got used to hospi- tals, going in and out of them to have my diabetes restabilised as gently as a dog goes in and out of his basket, but these last two sessions have been awful.
For a kick-off they got my foot wrong. A month ago they told me I had cracked a couple of bones in it and then Mr Cobb, the miracle titanium sculptor from Univer- sity College Hospital, came over to the Middlesex to double-check and told me that I had broken all five of the metatarsals in my left foot. Since then I have been in plaster from my knee to my toes and the alternate itching and chafing have me undecided whether to scream or cry. A medicine not prescribed by the National Health Service which I have found to be useful is vodka, so I suppose I shall soon fall over and break the other foot.
But, dear God, the boredom of a hospi- tal when you aren't feeling ill is horrific. It was only twice when I was in pneumonic comas that I didn't mind it because I didn't even realise I was there. There must be something to be said for death's door.
And now my right foot has started ulcer- ating, which is not good news for a diabet- ic. A district nurse comes in to dress the wretched thing — I once scored a direct goal with it from a corner — and Vera, God bless her, has been coming in every day. I also have patches of eczema on both my knees. I think God has chosen my body for a rubbish dump. I sneezed the other day sitting on my sofa and a shower of dan- druff fell on to my lap. I suspect that now women can do without me.
Mind you, the odd one still calls on me, but that must be for the free vodka. I have just telephoned the Vintage House to order another case of it so I suppose the front door will be kicked open this after- noon by some high-heeled shoes. There was a man in the next bed to me in the Middlesex who kept boasting to me that he had only had one drink in his entire life, his wife not one, and that he was the holder of an advanced driving licence. He was in there for a frightening six-hour operation on his heart and I prayed hard for him in my agnostic way, thinking how odd it was to be praying for one of the biggest bores I had ever met in my life.
There was an extremely unattractive woman on the other side of me who spent
no less than two hours every morning applying make-up to what must be called her face. She then fell asleep for the rest of the day and the only visitor she had was a man who gave her a glance, shrugged his shoulders and left. Well, you wouldn't have wanted to wake her up either. The landing by the lifts where I spent most of the time chain-smoking in a wheelchair wasn't too awful. Just a couple of ubiquitous diabetic amputees fondling their stumps.
It was wonderful to be taken home, albeit in an ambulance. And my day was made when I got there by a letter from Australia which The Spectator had forward- ed on to me. It was from a girl who lives in South Yarra in Victoria and she addressed the letter very simply to 'Jeffrey Bernard, London, United Kingdom'. I am flattered by that and also a little proud. Somebody in the Post Office must read The Spectator.
And now I have watched the final Test Match and won money to the disgust of some, but that is the end of summer. Now football hooligans will reign and Frank Keating for the fourth year running will forget to include the date of Derby Day in the new Spectator diary's list of sporting events. It isn't quite that unimportant.
Previous page
