Low life
Dead end
Jeffrey Bernard
How I wish life was like playing in repertory. Sadly, it isn't. I feel as though I have had a walk-on part in, say, The Mousetrap ever since its first night: 56 years of asking, 'Anyone for tennis?' and getting no reply. Even my doubles partners have all walked out on me. Never mind.
Well, I do actually. I lay awake for hours last night trying to work out whether it might be possible to change life. I don't think it is. It takes a supertanker something like 20 miles to stop, I'm told, and even this dinghy can't change course. I often think of making a geographical change but in my experience it just does not work. If you went to the South Pole the first person you would meet there would be yourself. Short bursts of travel can alleviate the pain but in the end life is terminal. What I hate is that I know exactly how the rest of today is going to go. It is too late to become a merchant banker. Unable to cope with my insights into the human condition I shall go to the pub shortly. A man came in there recently and started to chat to me. He told me that he was an English teacher and went on to say that the trouble with this column is that it is full of self-pity. How very wrong. I haven't felt sorry for myself for at least ten years. I think it is all a hoot and at the very least I am trudging to the grave with a wry smile.
So how to change it all? I suppose I could start going to the Carlisle Arms instead of the Coach and Horses. Switch from vodka to gin. A whole new world might open up. You know how it is when a train is travelling between railway embank- ments and you get impatient for a view? Well, that's how it is. I believe there is a foreign trip in the offing so that might get rid of a few days, which is an awful way to think, as though one's days were like money burning a hole in one's pocket. The thing is I am so short of a challenge waking up in the morning is too easy — I might have to take drastic steps and either get married again or have both my legs amputated. Something decisive anyway.
So what else is on the agenda? Well, I went to buy the microwave last week, had its workings demonstrated to me and was suddenly overcome with extreme feelings of stinginess. I am now going to buy a bedside refrigerator instead. Ice is essential and waking up in the morning to sour milk is symptomatic of decline in the way that hanging one's clothes on the floor and not bothering to shave is. It should be possible to plan things so that it would not be necessary to have to get out of bed ever again. The fact that I am beginning to look like Edith Sitwell would lend a touch of credence to that state of apathy as well.
Norman telephoned the pub from hos- pital yesterday and asked me to give him a report on the behaviour of his regulars. I was able to tell him that his ship was still on course and that we are all still spending as much money as possible reserving only enough for a biscuit and glass of milk last thing at night. He then somewhat amazed me by saying, 'If you need any money just help yourself.' The poor man is still hiccup- ing and I think that may be worse than having a bad back. He keeps putting the back out again and again when he suddenly sits up in bed to scream at his wife. She really should stop visiting him but she actually loves him. So, you see, it's true. There is someone for everyone. Even Hitler had his Eva but I don't suppose that visiting him in hospital after the bomb plot could have been any worse than visiting Norman with hiccups. The doctors should stop messing about and simply give him the fright of his life. News of financial disaster would put him on his feet again. How awful to think that we need the bastard. A really nice bloke behind that bar would be unthinkable.
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