Low life
One last bite
Jeffrey Bernard
This may not be Custer's last stand but I think it is almost certainly mine. From where I sit it looks quiet enough out there with the flag atop the Swiss Centre hanging as limp as myself and the neon sign of the Odeon Leicester Square glowing red through the mist, but it may be, as they used to say in movies, too damn quiet. Just as Sitting Bull managed to get hold of repeating rifles the Inland Revenue and the Customs and Excise, people are now armed with computers.
In spite of what people with a literary bent may say and complain about, the tele- phone has not killed off correspondence. It comes thick and fast and in all shapes and sizes. Among the final demands which, with a bit of bobbing and weaving can be divert- ed into ricochets, there sometimes comes a personal missive which can sap one's morale more than a punch on one's wallet. Such a one came yesterday which you might not think depressing but which low- ered the room temperature here. It was from a woman I am very fond of and in her letter she said, 'I value our friendship very much.' That may sound nice enough but more and more over the years, and towards the approaching dusk, I have noticed that when a woman tells me that she values our friendship she is, in fact, telling me that she doesn't fancy me or want to go to bed with me. It is a phrase used as a gentle put- down. It is like carrying a rump steak in your pocket to fend off inquiring pit bull terriers. This dog would like one last bite of the bone but I fear it is too late.
And now, Colin Haycraft, the boss of Duckworth, has just brought out a paper- back edition of the original 'Low life'. I had forgotten that he was thinking of doing so and it came as a bit of a surprise. It will go largely unnoticed, I fear, although Norman has already bought a copy. I glanced at the contents with mingled feelings mostly of remorse, but I like the cover. Unfortunate- ly nobody reviews book jackets.
Meanwhile, the noble biographer, Gra- ham Lord, having finished Just the One, has received a couple of waspy letters from women who rather regret ever having allowed him to interview them. One nasty from a journalist doesn't surprise me in the least. She is suffering withdrawal symptoms from not seeing her byline. It is as though I can almost hear her festering from here. A plague of self-importance is sweeping the country and thank God that most of the people infected by it choose to stay at home. They would be as pricked balloons if they ventured into the company of the wild bunch who inhabit the Coach and Horses.
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