Low life
Shop-soiled
Jeffrey Bernard
Ayou may well imagine, the farmer's Wife who is about to inherit £3 million has been on my mind this past week and m very pleased to hear that she does not intend to change her way of life. Quite right. She did after all have to fly home from a skiing holiday to consult her solicitors, it's not as though she had to walk back from Butlin's Holiday Camp at
The to consult them. So why change? ..,
'tie farm must be worth a few bob too what with land fetching — I'm guessing something in the region of £1,000 an acre. S.o why change all that? What she might like to change is her husband, mind you, and a windfall like this could well keep him °n his toes for a while. Poor bastard. I feel sorry for him. What a colossal cosh to be under. In fact, if I was him I'd leave her. He'll only have to lower his copy of Partner's Weekly at the breakfast table to give her a dog-like look of affection, his tail s° to speak wagging the while, and she'll looking 'Who the hell d'you think you're 'ooking at, you poxy little creep?' Anyway, obviously I've done a little fan- tasising, and not for the first time, on the question of what I'd do with serious loot. And what it comes down to is, quite simply, I'd spend it. I wouldn't change. It's far too late for that and I wouldn't go mad because I've tried that too and didn't like it a lot. What would change, I'm afraid are my friends and acquaintances. I'd hate to see their embarrassment. And women in general? Would they only then suddenly see What's been standing, longing and trembl- ing for mere crumbs, in front of them for the Past 30 years? You can bet on it and I'd adore to be loved for my money. Especially civer Sunday lunch in the Tour d'Argent. But these silly dreams don't last long, !hank heavens, because I'm fairly con- 'ettled, and what banished the £3 million from my mind was something I thought of wandering down the Kings Road on my way to the Queen's Elm for the third time in one week. (Where are you Tom Baker?) What I saw oPposite the Town Hall was an establishment called the Reject Shop. Now it struck me, like a punch between the eyes, that if you — I mean me of course — stood in the window for a while you might actual- ly get bought by someone quite nice. I mean obviously some people — my ex-wife for example — would walk past and sneer, but you never know your luck. The idea really tickles my fancy. I see myself in a sleazy
afternoon club in the Shepherd Market area being introduced by my tarty, blonde pur- chaser — her bust trying to burst out of her angora jersey, a drop of gin slowly sliding down her chin, her handbag open and full of cosmetic chaos — to her jaded lounge lizard friends. 'Got him in the Reject Shop in Chelsea. Not bad for 20 quid. Couldn't get it up, mind you, when I first took him home but it's amazing how he comes to life when you pour a couple of vodkas into him. Have another, dear.'
I can think of many people who could and should be put in the window of the Re- ject Shop. Edward Heath limped to mind when I first thought about it but what would you want to buy him for? Taki's friends would, I think, make a pretty in- teresting display but, come to think of it, I am in a bloody reject shop and have been for years. Whether it's called the Coach and Horses or whether it's called middle age I'm not quite sure. I suppose a sort of refusal to be gift-wrapped might have been my downfall. But if you've got a few bob and like a dog around the house then I can in- troduce you to several possibles. There are dogs here that will sit up on their hind legs and beg, fetch you your Sporting Life, lick your boots and stay loyal for a day at a time. Someone I don't want to see in my re- ject shop is the smocked and pitchfork- holding farmer who'll be gone with the wind after the wife's windfall.
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