Notebook
It is Possible to take any office — even the Office of Pope — too seriously. This was the problem of Paul vi. The awe with which. he regarded the papacy and its responsibilities was revealed even before he took office. During the last conclave, when it became clear that his election was inevitable, he was d. %covered by a fellow Cardinal to be weeping. Throughout his reign, his fear of inadequacy was a burden to him and weighed heavily upon his decisions. As Monsignor PurdY indicates on page 8, the time has come now for a more serene and optimistic Pope. Who would fit the bill? I would favour Cardinal Pignedoli, the head of the Vatican Secretariat for Non-Christians, Partly because he is the only one of the candidates whom I know at all well. I would saY 'Was a friend of his, except that he has a preposterous number of friends: he conducts a regular correspondence with some i sx thousand people throughout the world and I, being a bad letter-writer, am not among them. Still, I often had lunch with ,Tin when I was working as a journalist in 'Nome and I liked him. He may not be a great intellectual, but he is efficient, energetic,: Jolly and gregarious. He would present a john image of the church, rather as Pope 'An did, but would be more prudent in 15 Old embarking upon reforms. At sixty-eight, he enough not to frighten the electors with the prospect of an interminable pontificate and healthy enough to bear the burdens of the office. One of the oddities of the Papacy is that exceptional administrative tesPonsibility is placed upon the shoulders of a man who in other walks of life would be regarded as much too old for it. And not Only does the Pope have absolute control over a large, bickering bureaucracy; he insiusi above all be a spiritual man. Perhaps it
enough to make anybody weep.
Italy's leading newspaper Corriere della Sera has been complaining about the 'pater.n.alism' of the Italian State radio and television Company in its response to the Pope's Fath. For four days, the broadcasting services carried no advertising and no news .ri_at did not in some way concern the Pope. aDr o they consider that news and advertising I mounnngr
_ wicked modern frivolities, incompatible With
asked the newspaper's columnist Lietta Tornabuoni, ac,..ording to ,..wnom the only films shown on television Zre Peopled with nuns, popes and cardinals. 1.so speculated on the identity of the sena nsitive Programmer who planned the ic us. lc broadcasts on the wireless. `The mus, al sequence was roughly as follows: first "'ay Beethoven; second day Mozart; third day some light music as well, but only of the
orchestral variety; fourth day even some songs, but slow ones sung in English like Moonlight Serenade and Stardust.' The Italians, she says, have reacted to this imposed diet of solemnity with exasperation, oaths and tasteless jokes. The Italians, above all, are hoping that the next pope will be a foreigner.
It occurs to me that, in an age in which male-female relationships are so fragile, the way in which a man can best secure lifelong devotion from a woman is to commit some frightful crime or make himself the object of a public scandal. I am not thinking particularly of poor John Stonehouse, to whom Mrs Buckley has shown such admirable fidelity, for their relationship would no doubt have been equally durable under happier circumstances. But there are other obvious examples of the same phenomenon. Is it that women are often more susceptible to guilt than men and more fearful, perhaps, of the public disapproval to which desertion of a partner in distress would lead? If so, men should not exploit them.
I have come to understand through personal experience why it is that so many people dislike National Health hospitals. It is not because doctors and nurses lack professional competence; it is because they persistently refuse to treat patients — and more especially the relations and friends of patients — as human beings. Even the delays to which patients are subjected could be made tolerable with a little more humanity. I broke a finger while on holiday in the West Country. It was an ugly fracture which deformed the finger so much that I felt sick to look at it. I was driven to the accident department of the nearest hospital where, after giving all my personal details to the receptionist, I was filed away horizontally in a curtained cubicle to await medical attention. I was told there would be a delay. It was a Saturday afternoon, only one doctor on duty, and every few minutes a stretcher brought in the bleeding victim of some motor accident. Men .in white jackets with epaulettes occasionally passed my cubicle; they addressed me only to make sure that I would remain lying down. There is nothing they dislike more than a vertical patient. After I had waited about an hour in this posture, my wife smuggled in a miniature bottle of Scotch whisky, and I was caught drinking it by one of the men in epaulettes. With glee he examined my finger and announced I would need a general anaesthetic which could not be administered until four hours after I had consumed alcohol. This was pure sadism, for there was no need at all for a general anaesthetic. My wife was now in disgrace for having brought me the whisky; she then disgraced herself further by telephoning the parents of a twelve-year-old boy whose moans were drifting through the curtain from the next cubicle. He had fallen off his bicycle and broken his collar bone and although his parents did not know about it, a nurse had tried to persuade him there was no point in troubling them until a doctor had examined him, whenever that might be. When the doctor did finally arrive to look at me, my wife was peremptorily herded off to a waiting-room. She had been identified as a trouble-maker. I was still worried about my deformed finger, but was offered no reassurance. 'Will it be all right in the end?' 'We'll have to see.' Do you think I will be able to play the piano again?' How should I know? Fingers are always difficult.' The sadist with epaulettes administered an injjection. 'This is going to hurt a lot. . . does it hurt?' Not much.' Well you can be sure it will later on.' Anyway, the finger is now slowly recovering with the aid of a Harley Street physiotherapist who gently wiggles it every few days and who has earned my gratitude — as well as what will no doubt be an enormous fee —by displaying unbounded interest in my welfare and assuring me that one of these days my hand will be as good as new.
The English, when they are away from home, seem to be obsessed with going to the lavatory. They are constantly on the prowl for `toilets', and their needs seem to be well catered for by local authorities, as large signposts saying 'Toilet' can be found in even the remotest corners of the countryside. It is clearly a problem which nobody can risk ignoring. A good little article in Tuesday's Evening Standard advising readers of the attractions of Chartwell, Sir Winston Churchill's former home in Kent, concludes with the triumphant announcement: 'There are extensive public lavatories in the grounds.'
Alexander Chancellor
Previous page
