JULY
JULY Thursday 1 A blizzard of poppies. The sun's up and Nick and Julian are at work in the garden, moving soil and digging grass. Saturday 3 I slept all day. Richard came with supper, told me not to give in to the wobble. Sunday 4 Bart's. Waiting to be dripped. Strange dreams that grip my mind and hang on like terriers. Narrow Rooms will never be made, the BBChas no money. The BBC is broadcasting a dreadful service, full of silly hymns and even sillier messages from God. It's boiling hot, the drip takes hours, and I end up watching Kind Hearts and Coronets on the television in the 'lounge' and I'm not back home till late. I found it almost impossible to climb into a taxi; it's all the wrong shape for the wobble. More horrible waking nightmares. Tuesday 6 Life staggers on into a new day. I sat for hours, waiting to be dripped, in a dingy, illuminated - fluorescents behind frosted plastic - corridor, with allthe other patients at strange angles on wheelchairs. The wait was endless. I started to fall asleep. A boy was wheeled past on a bed with a beautiful face, looking as if he had been to a beautician. He was quite unconscious, the nurse stood stroking his hair. The hospital staff rushed around with an infuriating efficiency, ricocheting from one side of the corridor to the other; apart from their frantic dartings we all remained static. I've never seen such a ruined congregation, leaning this way and that in their chairs. Eventually, thank God, as depression just about seemed to swallow me, my name was called. The doctor covered me with gel and moved what looked like a hairdryer around me. The staff at Bart's are as confused by Mrs Bottomley's antics as any of us, 365 SMILING IN SLOW MOTION quite simply, no one knows what is happening. On the way to Berwick Street the taxi driver, spurred on by the closure of Bart's, started a wild tirade against the royal family and the gate to nowhere unveiled by batty Betty for her mother at the cost of one and a half million pounds. The Queen Mother's gate is so ugly it leaves you breathless. It looks like the gates from a provincial panto, which lead to the palace of the ugly sisters. The Queen inaugurated this disgrace by pulling a cord which unveiled a large metal pair of pink bloomers. At midnight I picked up a taxi in Hampstead and asked him to take me to Cambridge Circus around Primrose Hill. He said: 'Do you know how much that will cost?' 'About £9 or so. I have done this journey often enough.' 'I wish you would stop scratching, it's making me nervous.' Tm sorry, but I have eczema.' 'I don't want that all over my seats.' 'Do you do this to all your fares?' 'You can't be too careful who you pick up.' 'Isn't that an occupational hazard if you're driving a cab? You might have a saint or a sinner. I'm a saint.' Julian said: 'With your head-scratching and your clothes he probably thought you were a tramp,' which gave me pause for thought. Friday 9 The ceremony to be made an honorary fellow of the RCA. I arrived at ten a.m. with my fellow fellows, they included Jacques Lang, Issey Miyake, Roy Lichtenstein, Alessi. I walked up to Jacques Lang, mistaking him for Alessi, and startled him by saying: 'I have one of your teapots.' He must have thought I was mad. It was fairly spectacular - all the students graduating were all in black, white and red gowns, and we were in multicoloured robes with big velvet hats and golden tassels. There were people in gowns everywhere, including Gray Gowrie who had a gown that looked like a cheap evening dress. The ceremony went on for hours. I was incredibly hot and slipped out of my robes to cope with the heat. All the young students tried to help me back into them, which caused rather a diversion as the state trumpeters were blowing their blasts. As our names were called a solemn little man with a silver mace collected us and took us round to the front where we had to stand while we were eulogised with 'funny' introductions read to the audience by the public orator. We had to...
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