I fell. It was a Sunday morning and I was in the kitchen and I have endless excuses but I fell. Who would have thought that I should be so obsessed with bodily functions? Even urinating assumes epic proportions. Routine becomes important and the middle of the night vital. This lunchtime, for instance, I felt a delicious new potato jump out of its spoon on the floor where it rolled and came to rest just out of reach. I’m ashamed to admit that Penny retrieved it, washed it and re-presented it. I ate it. Delicious. Fell again at the bathroom in the Rag. My wife failed to put down the mat after I had been due for a shower. I thought I’d give it a whirl, slipped and/or skidded and ended up in a heap on the floor.Could have happened to anyone but the point is that it didn’t. We’ll never know unfortunately. Maybe it was a Parky accident but maybe it wasn’t. A paradox masquerading as a mystery.Discuss. It’s the uncertainty that’s crippling. Discuss that too.
The first fall came at the beginning of November when I was engaged with the speech therapy class in Glastonbury and we stayed at a local hostelry of a style I thought had gone out with the ark never to return. We went there because there was an afternoon session followed immediately by a morning one. The drive was horrific and Penny thought it would be a treat.I spoke about it to the class and it was ghastly
The month started with the death of Raleigh Trevelyan. Raleigh was the last survivor of a Cornish literary mafia that was led by himself, David Treffry and A.L. Rowse. Raleigh was gay and for most of his life lived with a Spaniard called Raul. I remember them coming to lunch dressed identically – two small people looking indistinguishable. It was the cashmere sweaters that really did it. Penny had a story about Raul doing an immaculate job washing up after the usual meal of coddled eggs, lamb and oranges. “oh look!” she said surveying the spotless kitchen “the tooth fairy has been.” “Yes” replied Raul spitting without missing a beat, “I am the fairy and I have been” and from that moment on. He was always the fairy and he had always been. It was their private joke. I had known Raleigh in London where he was Josephine Pullein-Thomson’s number two at PEN and lived surrounded by beautiful things in Mayfair. In Cornwall he lived in gorgeous St. Cadix a family house and I got to know him better.
The month continued with a sighting of Laurie talking on TV about her father in the Great War. As I told her, Pa Bennet would have been pleased with his daughter – we all were. Richard Morgan wrote to acknowledge my formal abandonment of the Sherborne project. His was a nice note and contained an acknowledgement that the ex-presidents’ lunch wouldn’t have happened but for me and the news that I had been toasted in my absence from the most recent. Very gratifying to be remembered in this way and for that reason. I was duly gratified! A statement arrived from New York about books. Result an on-pass for Penny and further gratification. Odd how Parkinson’s brings relief from the mundane and while on the subject of finance and my wife I passed on an offer for the Douro for November and was gratified when it was accepted. It did represent a considerable saving.
Up for Philip’s bash within the week – unlikely for various reasons from Plymouth. We couldn’t get in to the Rag so were due at the Premier Inn at Shoreditch. Correction – it was the one near Fleet Street and we duly checked in after the now habitual very expensive taxi ride. Philip’s do was odd. Too many photographs for my taste and a fair bit of Elgar and more or less traditional hymns but I could have done without Amazing Grace, quite so much family and, though it was fun watching him drilling small children, quite so much film. The service was at Holy Trinity, Brompton where years ago my aunt Betty married her own Basil Tennant. They wouldn’t have approved either but fashions in these as in all matters change. That says it all. It was a contemporary service and there was disturbing evidence that we had not kept up with the times.In the evening we had supper at the Groucho with friends. The first time we had been for ages.Bad news, good news, par for the course. Philip’s wake was full of old friends, many of whom surprisingly recognized me.
I wish, by the way, everyone would get it right about me. I AM a footnote figure and none the worse for being that but I’ve been lucky, fathered children and published books. While I suspect no-one really wants to shuffle off I have reached seventy and in the words of John Graham (I paraphrase) “I really can’t complain”. There. Enough said and I have said it.
What else? Royalty statement from the US –pretty pathetic. But done that. Winter fuel statement from the government – better than proverbial kick in the teeth.Heard from Lindblad Explorer people.Will send revised draft of speeches. Good news, softly, softly…but old prep school acquaintance in New Zealand dropped dead. The Lord taketh away, the Lord giveth, nothing if not even-handed our Lord, talking of which I have hit on a formula involving perception , reality, biffing boffins at Martock churchyard, boils, Evelyn Waugh, Stanley Spencer, his pram. Johnny St. John, long white beards and the halberdiers…round the twist sadly, dementing, ramble ramble,discuss…oh and sort out Sherborne and alcohol. Very important but not as important as boffins and boils. I almost ventured a discussion but thought better of it…boffins and boils…more important even than Sherborne. Apropos of which…but what about Yet Another Death in Venice? Emma says she couldn’t follow this and it was even more rambling than usual but at six in the morning and when one is over seventy you are surely entitled to ramble. “But” I hear you ask “does that mean one is entitled to put it in permanent form?” At which point…oh do shut up!