Low life
In deep water
Jeffrey Bernard
Iam on the move yet again at the end of the month. What I need is a road manager. As far as accommodation is concerned the past five years have been hell. Apart from being cheated by landlords — my last one disappeared nine months ago with a £650 deposit — it is an awful thing not to have a permanent home.
Last night I couldn't sleep for the cold. The gas boiler has had to be switched off at the insistence of a plumbing firm who have told me that I have been living in a 'poten- tially lethal situation' and have reported the fact to what authorities there be. The repairs require structural changes to this flat and I don't intend to pay hundreds for that. I shall not pay any more rent either with no heating and no hot water, which I am usually in. No baths, no washing up. The last time I shaved was in the gents in the Coach and Horses and today I am going towel and soap in hand to a friend's flat. Perhaps I should take some food- encrusted dinner plates with me.
But I did find a very nice flat last week which I intend to take. It is something of a paradox that it has that up-market symbol a sunken bath. Would any reader be good enough to tell me how on earth to get out of it? A rope ladder? What with my twin obsessions of flat-hunting and my bad health I couldn't even raise the ghost of a smile when I won money on the 2,000 Guineas last week. How odd to think that if it wasn't for Keith Waterhouse and Peter O'Toole this dog would have been left to lie. The thought of those two keeps my head above water.
There are side effects, though. Two stu- dents came into the pub last week to seek me out and ask me to sign a programme from the theatre.They were 19-year-olds studying English, history and drama at a college in Huddersfield. I told the girl that
she would have to do something about her accent, rather like Keith's, if she wanted to be an actress, otherwise she would be con- fined to plays like Hobson's Choice or Love on the Dole. The silly thing thought I was being serious and looked a little crestfallen. Her friend, the boy, said absolutely nothing but took a couple of snaps of his girl and me.
What the hell she wanted those for beats me. Possibly to frighten any children she may have in the future and probably as a warning to them as to what happens if you lead the low life. The ukelele maestro George Formby once visited a house some- where in Yorkshire and was delighted to find a framed photograph of himself on the mantelshelf. When he remarked on it to his host the man said, 'Oh, we keep that there as a warning to my son to show him how he'll end up if he persists in abusing him- self.' It is not recorded what Mr Formby's reply was to that.
But as to those two students who came into the pub to meet me, I was expecting a pertinent question or two but they hardly muttered a word. I tried to draw the girl out and help her with her history studies. When she told me that she had been born in 1951 I said, 'Oh yes, the year Arctic Prince won the Derby.' She looked at me as though I was stark mad. Perhaps I am. One more fall up or down the front doorsteps and I shall be certifiable, as I shall be if I don't get in touch with some hot water to wash in today.
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