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Front-line bulletin
Alice Thomas Ellis
Imay have said this before and if I haven't it is probable that somebody else has, so if you think you're going to be bored just skip this next bit. Always remember, mes enfants, mes anus, that things are never so indescribably ghastly that they can't get worse. This is not a consoling thought but it does lend to life a certain grim interest. What next, you ask yourself, as you lie on your back where fate has flung you amidst the sweet violets. People have sometimes asked, eyeing me quizzically, whether I don't perhaps ex- aggerate, embroider a trifle in these com- muniques from the Home front. Well no, sugar, I respond, after a moment's reflec- tion. No, I don't exaggerate. Sometimes I go on to mutter, 'You don't know the half
of it.'
Take last week, for example. I'm not going to tell you about one particular day which is etched for ever on my mind, because first it would be unfair to what seemed like quite a large proportion of the Population who for one reason or another kept pouring in through the garden gate, and second, you wouldn't believe it. You Can ask Beryl if you like. She had to lie down again. At one point the third son stood on the balcony going, 'Act 4, scene 3, take 14.' If you can imagine a collabora- tion between Ibsen and Brian Rix you'll have something of the flavour, and I wasn't feeling too strong already. The annoying thing was that we had a camera crew to hand, only they were up in the Buildings photographing Someone for a TV prog- ramme. I'm sure it will be very good, but it won't have the je ne sais quoi of the matchless performances that were going on down here. The Labour party canvasser made a brief guest appearance and, as somebody remarked, all that was lacking was the Avon lady. The Avon Bard might have picked up a few pointers too. I'm watching telly at the moment. Vin- cent Van Gogh has just painted his Sun- flowers and Gauguin says he doesn't want to be loved. I don't think he need worry, he doesn't seem very nice. Now he's trying to paint a picture in a high wind and getting into a fearful rage. Nevertheless their lives appear tame compared to my own, so I am turning them off. I don't want to watch any ear-lopping either. Vincent did say that he had something simmering in a pot and I wondered.
I also wonder what Jeffrey will make of Egypt and what compulsion it is that drives the denizens of the back columns of the Spectator to visit this ancient and myste- rious land. (Oh lawks. I just turned the telly on again and Vincent's done it. He's all bandaged up.) As I was saying, I wonder if Jeffrey's going to enjoy sculling down the Nile. (Poor old Vincent's gone right round the twist. He's roaring. His doctor says he suffers from symptoms of extreme terror. Don't we all?) Back to the Nile. When I went on it I got bitten by a lot of beastly namoosas, which is what we Arabic scholars call the common mosquito, and I hope Jeffrey has made special arrangements because unless he has he will find that his ice cubes are cooling nothing more than a glass of 7-Up. Egypt is becoming increasingly Islamic and alcohol is hard to come by if you don't know the right people. It also has other spectacular forms of insect life besides namoosas.
Flying beetles almost as big as little cats, and things that live in the sewers until they come up for a stroll round. Nasty things. However, I didn't notice any slugs, so Jeff won't need to worry about that.
I was told there were snakes in the fields but I didn't see any of them either. In fact I found Egypt quite peaceful after Camden Town — except for the traffic which beggars description — and I rather wish I was there now. Vincent's gone and there's nothing on telly except for Tom and Jerry, which is too violent for me, cricket, another silly game, and a lady talking about the election. Any minute it'll be Songs of Praise and I shall have no choice but to go and read the newspapers. Instead of being thankful for this period of Sunday boredom I find myself at a loss. I believe actors feel the same way when they're off stage, and I must remember to watch Laurence Olivier tonight 'revealing some secrets about his professional technique'. I may gather a few tips. I wouldn't wish to return to the histrionics of the past week, but it isn't half dull when the curtain comes down.
PS: The fifth son has just arrived in black-face, clad from head to toe in combat gear. Things are looking up again. Or do I mean down again? Exit, pursued by a bear.
Jeffrey Bernard is away.
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