DIARY P.D.
JAMES
Compared with the millions of pounds a day lost by British Rail, the frustration caused to commuters and the damage done to small businesses, my own misfortunes as a result of the signalmen's strike are, I sup- pose, comparatively minor although egre- giously dramatic. I was due to speak in the Isle of Wight on a Wednesday but was forced because of the strike to travel on the previous day. That Tuesday a WC basin mysteriously cracked in the top lavatory and a flood, which had I been here could have been dealt with very quickly, contin- ued unchecked through the whole of Tues- day, Tuesday night and until Wednesday afternoon, when my secretary arrived to be greeted by a scene of devastation with which she coped magnificently. Ceilings were dripping (one shortly to fall spectacu- larly), wallpaper had peeled from the walls, clothes were soaked and carpets and rugs sodden. The only happy member of the household was Hodge, the cat, who, bene- fiting from the fact that the electricity had to be cut off, scampered into parts of the house where she knows she is not normally allowed, and regarded my candle-lit search- es to capture her as a new and intriguing game.
Ald then the next day, drying some of my sodden clothes in the garden before they went for thy-cleaning, I slid dramati- cally on a damp patch of flagstone and crashed on my head into brief unconscious- ness. My subsequent departure in an ambu- lance at least afforded some interest to passers-by. If a hospital can be judged by the efficiency and humanity of its casualty department, then I can only say that St Mary's, Praed Street, is a fine hospital. (All is well with me now; no written or tele- phone commiserations are necessary.) I was greeted by one of those wonderfully reassuring sisters who immediately give the impression that it would be the worst of bad taste to die on them (not that there was ever any real risk of that), and treated by a pretty consultant young enough to be my grand-daughter. To lie in a casualty depart- ment cubicle with one's head taped to a stretcher is a strange experience. I felt part of and yet curiously detached from the sub- dued noise of purposeful activity. To be a patient is always to abdicate briefly from the responsibilities of life. In the ambu- lance I said to the attendant that it must be satisfying to have a job where your arrival is always greeted with gratitude and relief. He said that this wasn't so today. Being part of an emergency service or other caring pro- fession didn't save you from verbal abuse and violence. I remembered how, during the war, I could walk in London in the blackout without fear and how nurses from
the London Hospital in uniform were safe in any part of the East End at any time. However one rationalises the present crime figures, certainly we then lived in a kindlier and gentler world. Or is it perhaps that there are now two Englands and that one of them, in its ignorance, stupidity and ruthless barbarity, hardly bears thinking about?
Not to sympathise with the present campaign being waged by the disablement lobby is, of course, to be criticised as insen- sitive, callous and mean-spirited. Certainly I think it would do some of us good to be confined to a wheelchair for a week and to experience the frustration of finding public buildings inaccessible, restaurants less than enthusiastic in their welcome, suitable lava- tories few and far between and cars parked by insensitive motorists at the only place where we can conveniently cross the road. But I can't help feeling that the present fashion for categorising ourselves by our group — gay, feminist, disabled, black negates rather than emphasises our com- mon humanity. My two younger friends who are seriously disabled live useful and fulfilling lives often in considerable pain, but I don't think I have heard either of them mention the word 'disabled'. Their physical condition must certainly dominate their lives, but not, I think, their minds. And the most numerous disabled must, of course, be the elderly. Perhaps the over-80s will organise their lobby and demand front seats in all theatres reserved for them so that they can the better see, special con- certs organised where the music will be
`They're trying to abolish the right to silence!'
exceptionally loud, all trains, buses and taxis modified for their convenience, and an end to all the stereotyping of the old on television. No more Steptoe and Son and The Last of the Summer Wine.
The depressing fact is that no govern- ment can totally compensate for biological disadvantage. And the greatest biological disadvantage is undoubtedly that suffered by the ugly and the plain. To be born beau- tiful is to be advantaged the moment the baby opens its usually large and widely spaced eyes to an appreciative world, an advantage which continues through school- ing, the sexual life and career. Today politi- cal leaders may, of course, throw in the towel immediately unless blessed with a good head of hair, perfect teeth and a pret- ty face. Mr Blair is generally considered to be fortunate, Mrs Beckett less so, while poor Robin Cook, despite his intelligence, is said not to have been able to contest the Labour Party leadership because he looks like a garden gnome. I would have thought that looking like a garden gnome would be a positive advantage in the eyes of a large number of the British people, but appar- ently not. Mrs Beckett has an enviably trim figure and her face certainly doesn't fright- en me, but even she seemed to collude with the general idea that there was something missing and that she would have had a bet- ter chance if she looked more like Joanna Lumley. But then wouldn't we all? Certain- ly neither Disraeli nor Clement Attlee, to name two, would have a chance of becom- ing prime minister today. And nor, of course, would Neville Chamberlain — but that might have been rather a good thing. We writers are fortunate: beauty is neither required nor expected of us, although I note from some of the publicity material about new young novelists that their good looks are regarded as an asset on the pub- licity trail. The rest of us can attempt to look intelligent, interesting, eccentric or sinister as our reputation and the photogra- pher suggest, the last being difficult for a plump 74-year-old grandmother. But I sus- pect that few of us are free from the tyran- ny of the physical self. I wonder whether Salman Rushdie would have written The Satanic Verses if he had been born as hand- some as Imran Khan?
Ilearn from a reader's letter in the recent issue of the London Review of Books that for the first time in the history of mankind the living outnumber the dead. So we can no longer speak of joining the great majori- ty. Since this piece of information has abso- lutely no practical importance, I wonder why I should find it so discomforting.
Previous page
