Low life
Home help!
Jeffrey Bernard
Ibegan this stretch of solitary confine- ment one week ago and the light at the end of the tunnel looks extremely dim. I used to be full of all sorts of fight — I foolishly used to spring to my feet as quickly as pos- sible after having been floored in the ring instead of waiting for the count to reach eight — and now I can barely make the effort to do the exercises the physiothera- pist has given me to enable me to get as far as the corner shop if not the pub. I shall most likely eke out the days in my chair and even that is painful, my behind being horribly sore because of the angle at which I have to sit. The broken hip has started a chain reaction. Just as an animal can gauge its health by glancing at its droppings, so 1 know that I am as sick as a dog when I can- not face a drink and lose my appetite.
Fleeting plans I had to start a salon for deadbeats here have been abandoned. You might as well throw a party in Dartmoor. And, speaking of prison, I have iuSt received another letter from Patsy, who is nearing the end of his sentence in the Ford Country Club. He tells me that the place is going down the drain. It seems there was a time when the visitors' car park could boast the odd Bentley and Rolls-Royce, but now it is aptly full of clapped-out Fords. And apparently the table manners of his fellow guests leave a lot to be desired. Most of them, he tells me, eat like pigs and the sight of them offends his nicer feelings t° the extent that he now prefers to eat In solitary confinement, a punishment that he considers a luxury. Life must be hard for a refined prisoner. His golf is still improving and I believe he has acquired a new putter. A pity that when he gets to his release date the flat season will be over and his local course, Goodwood, shut up for the winter. I hope he will number among my visitors next month.
My home help, Vera, now comes along every other day, bless her, but she is going on holiday next week and I dread what har- ridan the council have sitting on the substi- tute's bench. One of the blessings about being virtually locked up here is that my daughter has popped in, shopped an cooked me a couple of meals. They remain undigested but I find her very nourishing.
A few other friends have been in anc! God forbid that becomes a duty for them am not entertaining company and can t even amuse myself. This ought to be a
golden opportunity to read Proust from cover to cover but that is the last thing I want to do and I even feel too ill to enjoy my compact discs. I watch the weather through dirty windows and I watch televi- sion of which only about an hour in all is worth looking at each day. The news, even the bad news, has become boring. Last night I watched the Booker Prize presenta- tions. Oh dear, the tweeness of serious writers.
I have also been listening to the new radio programme, Classic FM. That started With a lot of promise but it is becoming apparent that the powers that be seem to think that the only thing Mozart ever wrote was Eine Kleine Nachtmusik — commis- sioned by a wine bar? — and they should be told that there is more to Beethoven's Fifth than the first movement if they are going to play it every day. But if I didn't know better and if televi- sion showed The Sound of Music and The Magnificent Seven frequently I would think that every day was Christmas Day here in the muffled quiet that makes me think it must be snowing. Sometimes the telephone rings and then rings off during the painful struggle to get to it because the idiot the Other end doesn't realise I can't reach it in time. Time drags and I don't wonder that housebound housewives go mad and end Up in bed with the milkman. The chance of a milkwoman would be a fine thing. And now Vera has just appeared and she tells me that next week's home help is a lovely young thing. It matters not so long as she doesn't make weak tea or tell me that You can't be too careful'. A philosopher from British Telecom called in yesterday to put an extension on the telephone to reach my bedroom. And now I know it all. I Should never have tried running before I could walk. He said so. Advice too late in the day is always welcome. It numbs the brain and pain and, unlike analgesics, can be swallowed with vodka.
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