BLACK AND GOLD

You can't tell an eel he's wrong.  Primitive instinct  was devised by Nature to safeguard her creatures.  But in many cases, it succeeds in doing the exact opposite.  Every year, instinct leads millions of silver eels straight into manlaid traps.  These eels, spawned in Bermudan waters, swim to Europe, grow up in about two years and return to their birthplace to breed.  Many of them take the route round the north of Scotland, because when the migratory instinct was formed, the North Sea was dry land.  These eels could avoid the traps now laid in the North Sea if they took the English Channel route; a convenient short cut to safe deep waters.  But you can't tell an eel he's wrong.

How hideous, therefore, to apply this same logic to ourselves!  We won't be gainsaid, not even when our exploits are manifestly idiotic.  We make the same dismal mistakes, over and over again; we follow the same dreary pattern, and we learn nothing from it.   It is a sign of the times, my friends, and I fear that my generation carries a burden of guilt not visited on our dear old parents.  Consider my venerable father, for example, lately laid to rest in an earthy bed.  He went to his reward with no grimy vestment of guilt.  No; he had set out his stall in the full bloom of youthful optimism and had achieved professional success in direct proportion to the effort he put in.  And don't think that his life was narrow!  For some years he had an association with Lancelot Hogben, the father of modern Medical Statistics, and assisted on the revision of some of his reissued works.  My father was a general practitioner, but had an interest in completely incomprehensible mathspeak.  Yesterday, in an old notebook, I found the following in my father's hand: "The magical content of the number three, which has occupied a position of veneration in European culture, seems to be Semitic in origin.  Probably the worship of triangular numbers and the mystical attributes of the triangle itself in the Pythagorean culture, is traceable to the triangular symbol of the ancient Hittites, now the two triangles of Zionism".   This sort of mumbojumbo would find no seedbed in our modern life! And anyway,  which provincial GP, bestrewn with Practice Managers, and government targets and rising levels of chlamydia across all social classes, has the time to indulge in out-of-hours flimflam?  

I compare my eighteen-year-old self with my father, and the tears spring readily to my eyes.  In that glorious year, the year of the Queen's Silver Jubilee, my summer was divided sharply into protracted periods of idling and feverish attempts to make money.  I spent a lot of the summer on my back in Corsica,  an island-dwelling contemplative, who Just Lay There.  The rest of the time, I was engaged by two tobacco giants and required to attend sporting events  to promote the product.  Mid-July found me at Lord's for the Benson & Hedges Cup Final (Gloucestershire v Kent.  Gloucestershire won.  Fred Trueman adjudicated.  I was carried home, as per) in a vile polyester ensemble, a tiny dress that buttoned from the thigh to the neck and a golden sash with sequins.  We were encouraged to smoke like fuck, which was easy, and to engage all-comers in flirtatious conversation, which was not.  We had to sell the fags, natch, but we were also allowed to accept "gratuities", which were dependent on the level of outrageous compliments that we could pile onto the punters without gagging.  I was quite good at it.  A little girl from Leamington Spa was hopeless, however, and cried all day.  She said the men were all old enough to be her father, which was rather the point.  It still is the point.  That particular point will never change.  

My personal nadir, however, was Silverstone.  I was working for John Player, and the whole event was a cynical money-removing exercise of the first order.  We were each assigned hospitality marquees (working in pairs) and I got Elf Oil.  I am afraid I still feel shivery when I remember this terrible day, but let us just say that corporate entertainment was still in its infancy, and the rules of engagement had not been ratified.  I spent that night in Birmingham with 10 other John Player girls and we sat in a bar in stunned silence until Captain Morgan worked his magic.  By the end of September, I had bought an Anthony Price dress and a Simca.

We had to wear black and gold uniforms,  one-piece trouser suits, unbuttoned virtually to the navel, and heels.  It was prostitution of the vilest nature.  I have been listening today to Black and Gold by Sam Sparro, which is a sweet song and drives away the ghastly ghostly sounds of my Silverstone summer.

Because if you're not really here

Then the stars don't really matter

I'm filled to the top with fear

Because if you're not really here

Then I don't want to be either

I just want to be next to you

Black and gold, black and gold, black and gold.

TOMORROW SCARLET AND I WILL GO TO LONDON

Yes, we are going to Joe Allen again.  Wanna come with?  2.00 pm; usual table.

Scarlet will flash her pants and have one Mule too many. 

I will be bringing Sexy Back.

The following boxes will be ticked. No need to thank me:

Kev - I will wear elbow-length gloves.  Black.  Pigskin. Oi gevald, so sue me.

Boyo - I will channel Fenella, stink of Guerlain and take you out for a smoke.

Auty - of course I'm Lady Isobel Barnett!  Frisk me for stolen goods.

Inky - in my view, the Alexandrian culture had foreshadowed  the three great developments in the mathematical awakening which accompanied the rise of the Protestant democracies. The cartography of Ptolemy and the curves of Apollonius embodied the essential features of Cartesian geometry.  I've got loads more of this, Inky.  Wanna crack it open with me?

Gadj - I am an English Rose; Juliet Mills, district nurse, the full uniform. Bike.

Crabtree - Aux innocents, les mains pleins.

Farrish - Just see me as Yvonne Romain at her best: a maidel mit a klaidel, you old Bohmer.

Gyppo - Yeah, I'm paying.

I'm bringing sexy back,  those other girls they don't know how to act

I think it's special what's behind your back

Just turn around and I'll take up the  slack

Dirty babe, you see these shackles baby I'm your slave

I'll let you whip me if I misbehave

it's just that no-one makes me feel this way.

What charming sentiments! Young Mr Timberlake should be proud of himself, and so should his mother. However, if you want to see a White Russian worked over by an expert, you should hurry to Exeter Street tomorrow and ask for me by name.

Love you.

ON PROBATION

"A thing of beauty is a thing forever", thus spake my devoted char, Mrs Rumteigh, this morning, and never a truer word was rasped by that sumptuous old drudge. How easily this could be applied to the Probate Office where I have had to spend a lot of my valuable time in recent weeks, for truly it is a thing, and will be a thing forever.  As I attempt,  as required by the law of this land, to execute my father's last testament,  the suction-covered tentacles of jurisprudence have me in their grip. Yesterday,  I attended the solicitor's office with my sisters, for yet another hour with Mr Oetzmann in his dingy chamber off  Villiers Strteet.  You see, my father's will has turned out to be far more complex than we first thought.  My mother, that gorgeous old harridan, is the major beneficiary.  All well and good.  There are several bequests to charities.  Splendid.  Some smallish gifts to retainers and locums.  Right and fitting.  And then there is a vast, shimmering superstructure of trusts within convenants, within protective titles within encumbrances. 

-Your father seems to have received some arcane fiscal advice, says Mr Oetzmann without irony. 

 There are nine codicils to his will, each one tied with green satin ribbon.   My sisters and I have been left some money.  For them,  it is quite straightforward.  They are very pleased.  My sister, Belinda, has a huge, unwieldy house needing repair, and my sister Cornelia has a huge, unwieldy husband needing rehab.  These things cost money.  It is a lifeline.  For me, the situation is more delicate.  My father, whom I'm almost sure loved me more than the others, has left my money in a trust to be administered by my oldest child, my daughter Joybells, the theatrical.  I can scarce believe my ears.  I ask Mr Oetzmann to re-read.

-It is quite plain, he says.  Your father seems to think that his grand-daughter is better placed to administer this bequest, for some reason.

-How killing! shrills the Heiress to the right of me. 

-He knew you'd piss it all away, hisses the Executrix to the left.

-Your father seems to think there might be malfeasance, nonfeasance and misfeasance, says Mr O.  I think I can reference the Accumulations Act 1892 here.  Mrs Pouncer, are you familiar with R. v Thellusson, or Faggott's Law of Purchase?

Mr Oetzmann is a nice man, he is a bright man, he is a kind man, but he might just as well be reciting chunks of the Cartularium Saxonicum.  Nothing seems to make any sense.

-Why would he do this, Mr Oetzmann?

-It is hard to say, Mrs Pouncer. He leaves no clue.  All I can say is that whereas and whereinunder, as, to and pursuant from whichever or whatever, for by and under, which said person or persons being or having been entitled, unless injuncted, disjuncted, rejuncted or double-juncted, the aforesaid without foreknowledge whosoever, shall or shall not be the sole accessor for and by the law of scriven and scroven, the which not proven.

Seconds later, we are across the Strand and into Joe Allen.  My sisters drink Dubonnet with a twist; I have a White Russian, which I suck through a transparent straw.  I feel a welling tide of misery, because I think I know why this has happened.

Back at home, my boy waits for me on the doorstep.  I have taken away his key.  This is he of the burning eyes, the hacking cough, the raccoon skin hat.  He is skint, although next week he will be minted.  He can be seen this weekend in one of the aspirational supplements, in a shoot for trenchcoats.  He is living with a girlfriend in Marlow, but he comes home when she is too stoned to cook or there is no lavatory paper.  They support a vigorous habit between them.  My father knew about supply and demand.  My son hawks violently into a paper handkerchief and says, I'm ill.  I feel really ill and look at this.

He shows me a newspaper article about someone he knows vaguely. It is Jake Myerson. 

My boy says, you wouldn't do that, would you?

And I say, no, of course not! Fuck, no.  I would never tell anyone anything. 

And then we stand on the step together and have a smoke.

GOOD MOURNING

Mourning becomes me. I don't just mean the couture - of which more later. No, it suits me because it provides an arena  for more generalised regret.  Whilst mourning the dearly departed, one can also bolt on various other mopes such as misspent youth, poison-pen letters and buying black leather bunny-ears by Benoit Missolin last week when I really couldn't afford them. I thought they would amuse Lord Numb who is taking me to Jumby Bay next month and, therefore, needs encouragement, but I was wrong.  My women readers will sigh when I say: how can one please a man? And how can this be done quickly, cheaply and with no strain to the lower back?  It is a mystery as old as time,  and black leather bunny-ears no longer cut it, apparently. Numb now claims a fascination with the I Dream Of Genie look: Kathy Kirby hair, ruched chiffon brassiere and a yashmak.  The whole thing is beyond reason. 

I have worn some gorgeous ensembles during this period of grief, and have made some other mourners quite giddy with envy and desire.  A black leather dress by PPQ, Daybirger & Mikkelsen gloves and a Sergio Rossi python-skin clutch set the standard at the crematorium.  Some dowdy old retainers and a so-called Practice Manager looked surly, but I swept past with a scowl.  The Probate Office saw me in a perfectly plain silk jersey dress by Britt Lintner, a pair of Kenneth Cole Broken Hearts in parma violet and a Theo Fennell serpent.  Every day for a month I have worn a beautiful diamond and yellow sapphire pin in the shape of a sorceress holding a crystal ball by Van Cleef & Arpels.  It was given to me by my father to mark the birth of my first baby.  Yesterday Numb presented me with a bottle of Ange ou Demon and a David Morris bracelet. On the packaging was written: David Morris - London - Palm Beach - Moscow - Doha -Dubai.  Could anything be nastier than that despicable itinerary?  I nearly refused to accept the trinket, but I am nothing if not gracious.   Some baser women have rolled their eyes and said The Wages of Sin, but I despise their envy and turn the other cheek.

Clearing my dear father's belongings has been a painful trial, and quite boring.  He owned seven identical suits and shoes of almost comical antiquity.  I am keeping his clinical equipment for posterity, or to use in hospital role play should Numb be excited by memories of Emergency Ward 10. In a heap of Wincarnis crates, I found my father's old cameras. What memories!  He dealt with several companies, all linked in some way with my dear old Opa: Silber of Lambs Conduit Street, Komlosy of Dunstable, Steinhardt of Islington, Pearlman of Harrow, Engert of the Strand and, of course, Max Spielmann of Liverpool.  In one box, I found his ex-Air Ministry Gaumont British Projector, for which he paid £60.  He was a keen and clever photographer and won the Daily Herald competition in 1963 for a black and white portrait of my mother.  The prize was £300 and the challenge trophy.  He called the portrait "Hannelore", which is my mother's middle name.  I wish you could see it.   She is 28 years old but looks like a schoolgirl.

Another year, he won a prize for a picture of a bee in flight.  We had a hive at home and kept a swarm until it was stricken with Isle of Wight's Disease.  People shouldn't be scared of bees. The worker's sting is quite straight and can be easily pulled, but the sting of the Queen is like a scimitar. Workers sometimes sting bees from other hives, and such a sting is always fatal, but a Queen never stings anything other than a rival Queen.  The drone has no sting, and is therefore quite defenceless.

THESE FRAGMENTS I HAVE SHORED AGAINST MY RUINS

The rest is a little flattish and faded.  During Stalin's speeches to the Praesidium, the first delegate to stop clapping was routinely dragged out to be shot through the head, but at my father's wake family expectation kept everyone applauding indefinitely.  There were speeches upon eulogies upon valedictions, each one as overwrought as the last.  I spoke without notes, although with someone holding me up, for 15 minutes.   A Beverley Sister thanked everyone for coming and my cousin referenced Sartre, saying he had no moral imagination, but no-one knew why. My mother sang Zeh Mikvah, and all my aunts and uncles joined in.  None of the women weigh over 8 stone, and they all wear fur.  Most of the men cleaned up in Ladies' Ready-to-Wear in the 70s and look like Bernie Delfont.  They all speak, as I do, in the Hendon rasp.  The maddest aunt swam into my orbit, saying: Where is Herve Alphand?

Not here, Aunt Passie. He died a decade ago.

And where is your father?

This is his funeral, Aunt.

Whose?

My father's. Herve Alphand isn't here.

Herve Alphand died years ago, Clarissa!

Yes, I know. This is my father's funeral.

Is Herve Alphand here?

And then I overheard an ugly Walloon say "Tu savais que Clarisse etait communiste - moi pas!"

People drink far too much at funerals. Booze stands indicted as a bad thing, and I stand charged with aiding and abetting. Is it a victimless crime?  Well, no. I was completely pissed on Tanqueray and tonic by 4.00 pm, and a wretched sight to behold.  The trouble is I drink as if there is not only no tomorrow, but hardly anything left of today.  Also, I am one of the truly great smokers of my generation.  Sitting weeping on a faux velvet banquette, I was joined by an ennobled culture pundit, ertswhile neighbour of my father and a hard man to like.  You will know him from the television. He often starts sentences with "And yet we must ask ...". This time he started his sentence with "You are a fucking disgrace".

It is very difficult not to hit someone when they roundly abuse you like that.  But he said "you are a fucking disgrace because you traduce your poor father's memory.  And you are hurting yourself".  Physically, he is a big man.  Some years ago, actually many years ago, I worked with him on a production of Oedipus Tyrannus, you know, by Sophocles, that one.  It was a small budget gig, strictly limited season and in the provinces.  He said "do you remember the beds and tables you made for Oedipus?" and I did.  And I was terribly excited to be reminded because I had forgotten how clever I was. 

"Do you remember the beds and tables?" Yes, I do because I still have one. A table. My children used it for dolls' tea parties when they were little. And I made it from a sheet of three-quarter inch birch plywood, four carriage bolts, 12 flat washers, 8 lock washers and hex nuts, 8 butt hinges, four rubber leg tips, some wood filler and polyurethane varnish. I used a sabre saw and a power sander, and I borrowed a drill press from the man next door. I sanded it down, and filled in  all irregularities and covered it with a clear varnish.  And that is the story of my life.

   

CURTAINS

And then, of course, I had a wake to organise. Can you imagine anything gloomier? The deceased - a man of medicine - was gigantically popular, highly-regarded, the centre of village life, the deliverer of new babies, the easer of the dying, the finder of lost children, and truly his brother's keeper.  It was decided that the event should be held in a theatre, a nice nod to the long years he put in as duty doctor on the sets of some of the worst British films in living memory, including On the Buses.  Some kind friends will recall that before making a raging success of marriage and motherhood, I worked as a props mistress, labouring alongside some of the greats, such as that darling old Svengali, Dennis Groutage.  My father's wake was held at an establishment that is currently dark, but where I spent many happy months on a long-running Rodgers and Hammerstein.

There is something captivating about an empty theatre, and there is nothing like the thrill of standing on an undressed stage gazing out across the serried rows of empty seats. I am sorry to tell you that my self-indulgence knew no bounds, and I crept away from the convivial mourners in the theatre bar to wrap myself in the proscenium curtains.  You see, I am an expert in tabs; there is very little about theatre curtaining that I don't know. Go on, ask me.  A proscenium curtain can be lifted and lowered up to forty times each performance. No. 88 or 96 Fleur de Lys webbing is best for lighter weights.  Operating lines should be of hemp sashlines or superfine manilla rope.  Galvanised steel cables give long periods of trouble-free service.  Would you like to see my drawings? I have kept them, filed away, all these years. This one is a sectional drawing showing details of the joining clamps to be used with tubular metal stage equipment. And this one shows a method of attaching a barrel fitting, and this one is a pulley fitting for carrying lines to the winch.  My father was very proud of my technical know-how. He liked girls to be practical, and he was a complete pushover when it came to show-business.  I have never met a more stagestruck man. There was very little about it that he didn't like, and he was easily impressed.  At a Bray Studios charity gala long ago, he performed the Heimlich Manoeuvre on one of the Beverley Sisters when a cocktail sausage went down the wrong way.  He oft times described that event as a defining moment.

In the theatre, when the house is full you say it is "Harry Packers". That was one of my father's favourite expressions; he used it all the time.  Sorry I'm late, the surgery was Harry Packers this morning.  Couldn't get near the station: the place was H. Packers.

When a show wasn't selling well, it was common to give tickets away, or to substantially reduce the price,  just to get bums on seats.  Very often, these freebies were given to nurses, or student nurses and doctors, for some reason.  My father benefited from this scheme in his youth and never forgot it.  This was called "papering the house".  Rubbish crowd tonight; the house was full of paper. 

I know this post is rather disjointed; I am not fully back to normal and I know it shows. I am sorry.  My father had a wonderful life. He loved New York, and he was lucky enough to see the famous contour curtains of Radio City Music Hall.  2,000 yards of fireproof lining, a mile of metal cable and a weight of three tons.  Some people have all the luck.

GROWN UP STUFF

My father died on Wednesday night. Not a surprise; he was in hospital, gravely ill and we'd been warned.  Hospitals are careful to put the afflicted on a sliding scale these days. They believe it is helpful to the family to be kept au courant, so you have stable, seriously, gravely and dead.  As my father was a retired GP, it was difficult not to regard his final days as some kind of Busman's Holiday.  I know how this must sound, but his professional life had had death at its core - mainly its avoidance or prevention, you'll be relieved to hear - but death nevertheless. He knew death intimately, and was never frightened of it. I know this because I once asked him, and he said no, not death, and certainly not dying, and with all the palliative coshes you can get these days, well, hahaha, no, I'm not scared of dying, and neither should you be. I was about 14 at the time.

I wasn't there when he died; I'd left his side about half-an-hour previously, and now I feel strangely guilty, and a bit cheated in an odd way.  For the last twenty minutes of my final visit, I read a newspaper and wondered what to have for dinner. To think that I should have wasted these precious moments on such trivia astounds me now; I should have concerned myself with his fate. Because no matter how much I would have willed it otherwise, fate was obviously on its way to meet him.  I am left with an unbearable ache, because he was an excellent father in every way, and I really don't think I told him that often enough.  Just after Christmas, I had a charming little speech prepared in my head which would have told him how much I loved him, and how much I had always respected his example. I hope he guessed it, but experience tells us that saying these things aloud works much better than leaving them to be deduced. 

Goodness, it's tough. Death, and paperwork, and funeral directors.  Grown up stuff.