Low life
Vera come home
Jeffrey Bernard
The newspapers must be even more desperate than usual for news. Some days ago the Times put my name in a list of peo- ple headed Celebrity Singles. I wasn't aware of the fact that I am a celebrity and the idea to me is quite laughable really. But as to this list, it comprised people who live alone and the more I look at it the less sur- prised I am that they live alone.
They aren't all as dilapidated and hag- gard as I am, but I should think a few of them might be even more uncomfortable to live with. Madonna, for example, is not my idea of a heavenly mate, but I could stand the sight of Sian Phillips in the morning, which is more than I can say for another loner, Barbara Cartland, who must look a bit like a chimpanzee without make-up and who would probably make me wear pink pyjamas. Sharing a flat with Sir Cliff Richard is a nightmare to contemplate. It is ridiculous enough that he should have been knighted and, worse still, my brother Bruce has teasingly suggested that I would defer to him and utter such awful and mundane remarks to him such as, 'Would you like me to put the kettle on, Sir Cliff?'
The only bit of light relief I can see is the possibility of bedding down with Joan Collins, but an ex-wife of mine who once worked in films told me that the star of Dynasty is so mean she takes home from her dressing-room loopaper, dying flowers, half-empty jars of cold cream and any old hairpins she finds on the floor. I once actually met Shirley Conran, who is also on the list, when she had just written Lace. I hadn't read it completely, just the dirty bits, and I was intrigued by her vari- ous trains of thought. If she was picked out by Sir Terence Conran, though, I would guess that she must be a little too brittle. Well, these celebrity singles are a pretty benign bunch and the only exception who stands out is the witch-like Dr Germaine Greer. Some years ago she was at times a jolly Aussie companion and then, maybe because of her 'celebrity' status, she began to take herself too seriously.
Personally, I've been learning a trade since I was eleven.' Who should be on the list, of course, but isn't is Vera. She has moved and touched me yet again. The day before Easter, she bought me three little treats from one of our better food stores and left them for me with a note wishing me a happy Easter.. It could have been happy, too, if it hadn't been for yet another one of her understud- ies over the holiday. The woman in ques- tion has twice surveyed my sitting-room and told me that it needs hoovering and she has then ignored it. Yesterday I demonstrated for her benefit how to make toast, which consists of putting a slice of bread under a grill until it turns to a golden brown colour, but she still serves up what is no more than hot bread. Funny, that.
The biggest row I've ever had with a woman in my entire life began with my ask- ing her to give a similar piece of hot bread another minute under the grill. That was the thin end of a wedge called divorce and was the death knell of a parting, just as the scraping of burnt toast can be — one of the most depressing noises in a marriage.
But what is even worse than a redundant Hoover and rare toast is the compulsion this woman has for throwing away a per- fectly excellent mixture of olive oil and but- ter in an iron frying-pan, washing it with detergent and then drying it so that it rusts. You might think that trivial. I could swing for it. I shall be glad when this Easter is over and Vera is resurrected.
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