The Irish Tales

Second Life (20)
　
A very pleasant young man called round today to check that our burgular alarm was working properly and was "fit for purpose", as the modern saying goes.
The same pleasant young man has called every year for eight years and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, these days, I very rarely set it at night.
Mainly because I never sleep for longer than two hours at a stretch and I’m always wandering upstairs and downstairs; for a drink, for cigarettes, to give Oscar some milk and often just to watch the news and steal a forbidden sandwich.
Unfortunately, he caught me in the middle of a splendidly disgusting coughing fit, with the associated expulsion of bile and a raging temperature.
He observed this with a cautious eye, before saying, "You ain’t well again, are you ?"
It was the "again" which gave me cause to think.
It would appear that, every time the pleasant young man had called round, I was somewhat indisposed. I don’t know why, but this rankled with me, for some reason.
The night before, I had been to what was called a book launch, but which turned out to be the equivalent of a high school reunion.
The occasion was the publication of "The Upright Piano Player", a first novel by David Abbott. Google will tell you all about the book, which is very fine indeed.
As for Abbott himself, he was one of, if not the, finest advertising writers of recent years and my boss for many of them.
Consequently, the guest list for the night was a little like reading the internal phone directory for AMV over the last 30 years.
(There were also a few luminaries from the world of publishing and media in general, but they were of course, roundly snubbed.)
I was in two minds as to whether Kate and I attended, mainly because such gatherings tend to overwhelm me these days, but my fondness for Abbott persuaded me; that and the fact that the venue was one of my favourite bookshops. Old-fashioned, esoteric and catholic in its choice of books, Daunt’s was a much-loved haunt of mine back in First Life.
After a gentle lunch at the Hellenic, it was an exquisite pleasure to wander around it’s cavernous halls, seeking old, out-of-print editions and other literary curiosities. And then there was the company.
Many of the people there I hadn’t seen for over twenty years, many more I simply didn’t remember, much to my shame.
Curiously, there were not a few who read these columns, which amazed and delighted me in equal measure.
I guess I never will really understand the power of the web and its viral capacity.
I seem to have tapped into it more by accident than by design, not that it matters much either way.
The result is all that counts and it gave me much pleasure to talk again to people who once mattered to me very much, in the sense that I relied on their help and co-operation in my daily work.
I was stunned to see that most of them looked exactly as I remembered them – whereas God alone knows what they though of the sight of me, greying of hair, half-deaf and hobbling around on my stick, my dear old Smitey.
(Who more than proved his worth, by pointing at drink and food and accidentally tripping up people who were boring me.)
Inevitably, given that the venue was at Daunt’s bookshop on Marylebone High Street, we drifted on to the Hellenic for a little light food and heavy drinking afterwards.
In all truth, I was out on my feet and yearned for a cab and the comforts of home.
In all honesty, I ordered large Metaxas and bathed in the glow of times past.
Y’see, when you’re comfortable and in the company of old friends, it’s easy to ignore the warning signs.
Aye, well. When we finally hailed a cab and set sail for Barnes and the Pink House, I was – how to put this ? – somewhat a little the worse for wear.
And naturally, after such an evening, I could not possibly go straight to bed. Oh no, far too sensible.
Kate and I sat up into the early hours, giggling over the memories of the evening and how we had individually cut dead the people we never, ever, liked but pretended to and the annoyingly small time we spent with those whom held in deep affection.
And so, eventually, I retired to bed, only to be woken up by the very pleasant young man.
He discovered me, pale-faced, dressing-gowned and coughing my lungs out at 1.30 pm the next afternoon.
For a short time, his unrelenting cocker-ney cheerfullness filled me with the futile anger and irritation of the recently woken-up.
Then, he said, with the hesitancy of the genuinely concerned but inarticulate, "Er…Mr David…Is there anything I can for you..,.at all ?"
I glowered at him, the impudent young pup.
"No," I coughed."I’m fine. Thanks." (I can be so gracious when I have a mind to.)
Thus rebuffed, he proffered the chit for me to sign.
Then he tried again.
"Really…can I go and get you anything ? Like.. cough medicine…or…..juice ?"
His gaze wondered around the room.
"Or perhaps some more vodka ….?"
This last made me smile and relent. "Thanks very much, it is appreciated. But honestly, I’ll be fine," I said, meaning it.
He lingered for a while, pretending to double check something, before gathering up his kit.
"Well, then. I’ll be off. See you next year ?"
I smiled weakly at him.
"Yup!"
He stared at me, wide-eyed and worried.
"Um…you’re sure that –"
I put on my coldest face.
"I’m sure. Thank you."
He sighed and shrugged, then left. I went back to bed.
But that night, I set the alarm. Guilt, I suppose……….