‘Earth has not anything to show more fair.’ I have always believed that the notion of a Dry January must have been launched on the world by von Sacher-Masoch: one of his more obscene fantasies. I would no more subject myself to it than to any of the other 11 months. They all deserve better. This year, however, malign fate intervened.
On 3 January I was strolling along (as it happens, stone-cold sober) when I suddenly felt rotten. I sat on a fence to work out what was wrong and promptly passed out, falling a few feet while bumping and bashing on the way. A neighbour spotted the fall and dialled 999 virtually before I landed. A few days later, on the phone, he told me: ‘When I first saw you, mate, I thought you was fucking dead.’
Two delightful nurses arrived to change the brace and do some shaving
When I came round, I assumed that it must have been something life-threatening. Not so: it appears that the probable cause was low blood pressure. I did not even know this was a reason for alarm, but there it is.
I had a cracked vertebra at the top of the spine, needing careful attention, plus broken ribs, which just have to heal, a gash on my scalp and sundry other abrasions. There was a consolation. I found myself in St Thomas’ and the view over to the Palace of Westminster is even fairer than it would have been in Wordsworth’s day. The Thames is liquid history. Whether it is an old brown god, in Eliot’s words, it has been sardonically observing the brief comings and goings of its riparian inhabitants for at least three millennia. St Thomas’ itself has been a hospital for almost a thousand years.
Benefiting from Tommy’s care on previous occasions, I remain an unqualified admirer. There is always an atmosphere of good cheer. I am convinced that young laughing female voices have a therapeutic value.
In a neck brace, I could not shave. So two delightful nurses, Gemsie and Stacey, arrived to change the brace and do some shaving. I was determined to set out the rules of engagement. ‘Girls, you must understand that there is an entire distinction between a shave and plastic surgery. Whatever your aesthetic instincts, I would prefer to preserve my features more or less as they are.’ On their part, they stressed that I would need to keep absolutely still and silent. That was not easy, for it was hard not to chuckle at the two minxes’ ministrations. But I still have two ear lobes and other appendages.
Sweet Thames, run softly – but the river has seen tragedies as well as amusements. There are a surprising number of drownings, and think back to an earlier era, when bleak barges conveyed state prisoners from Westminster to the Tower: a final journey. Equally, hospitals do not always succeed. Sometimes there will be moments of timor mortis conturbat me – though not in my case.
I did require a general anaesthetic to sort out the scalp. In advance, I enquired what the survival rate was: 50:50? ‘Perhaps a wee bit higher than that.’ The joshing continued almost until the moment when I lost consciousness. But I was glad to emerge to a groggy recovery.
Grog. In hospital, I had never felt its absence. Released, I am beginning to ease back to a normal diet, assisted the other evening by a friend who has a sound collection of Rhône wines. A Famille Perrin Beaucastel blanc 2016 was deliciously subtle. A number of Vieux Donjon vintages had the tenacity and power one would associate with that appellation. Sweet Rhône, run softly. I do not know which colour of deity Eliot might have decided on, but many a pope has blessed the product.
It occurs to me that wine might well banish the risk of low blood pressure. I wonder if there could be any medical basis for that conclusion. One can only ask, while making a New Year’s resolution: no more dry months.
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