Home life
Ninepins
Alice Thomas Ellis
people keep falling ill. I think the stars must be .responsible. The moon is looking very peculiar at the moment too. We were standing on Downshire Hill last night and we could just see a crescent slice of its bottom, and while admittedly I've never been one for gazing at the night sky much and have trouble distinguishing be- tween the Plough and the Bear or what- ever, I've never seen it do that before. Janet was sick on Friday, the cat was sick on Wednesday and the daughter measured her length on some paving stones on Saturday. We sent for the doctor who arrived promptly and when I'd ascertained that his mother knew he was out (it does feel odd throwing one's trust on someone who looks as though just that minute he'd graduated into long pants) he said that he thought she'd live. She and I debated about this when the time came to go to school, and she won, hands down. She said she had a headache and as this is as undeniable as back pain I could not refute her. She felt well enough later to demand a Mars bar and I stopped worrying: Then I developed alump on my throat (not in it, but on it) which looked remarkably sinister but proved to be a boil. I never had a boil in my life before and can't imagine why I should have to start now.
Jeff seems to be on the mend though. We went to the Middlesex today to see how he was getting on and he is looking rather frail but handsome. What used to be called pale and interesting. He is obviously being wonderfully well cared for, but I've always felt that the last place you want to be When you're ill is in a hospital (rather as the last time you feel like giving birth to a baby is when you've been tiringly pregnant for nine months). They tend to be airless and hot, though I was glad of this today as I'd just washed my hair and it dried the moment I set foot inside. Hospital food too tends to be strange, and unlike anything you would eat anywhere else. Limp, cha- racterless and somehow unconvincing. For his lunch Jeff had some chicken casserole and a little bit of yellow fruit and we began to plan a rather more robust repast for when he gets out. I took him a book of schoolgirl stories because I don't suppose he's ever read them before and this seemed as good a chance as any. I always found them very untaxing and soothing when I was confined to bed with measles and they'll make a nice change from studies of Byron and Wellington, and the Pink 'Un. We didn't stay too long because it seems so unfair to the patient who is trapped in his bed and cannot, no matter how much you're boring him, suddenly glance at his watch as he remembers an urgent appoint- ment elsewhere.
I have suffered in this way in my time. I always refused to go to hospital to have the children and had them at home attended by perfectly splendid midwives and some- one who would sit reading Herodotus, assuring me that the whole process was quite natural and eventually greeting the doctor at the door with the words 'It's a beautiful boy,' which it usually was; until the last time when the daughter (who else) rotated within like a windmill, threatening to emerge sideways and necessitating a month or so in the maternity ward. By the very nature of things one's more amusing friends are frequently away somewhere, amusing and being amused, and one's most regular visitors are good-hearted crashers who when you're at home and you see them approaching cause you to run and hide under the sink. You can't do this in hospital and you have to make conversa- tion until exhaustion causes your tempera- ture to rise.
Anyway I can report that a number of utterly delightful nurses are minding Jeff as though he was the crown jewels, and I confidently expect him to come soon to a celebratory lunch. I think I might even pierce it with some garlic and cook the chicken in wine.
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