Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [220]
A few minutes later, unable to get anything more than three or four rushed words out of him, we left. The cheerful Pakistani seemed very ready to talk to us about him and I also briefly met the physiotherapist who says he can only just stand up and cannot walk at all yet. Is this the result of being stuck in hospital for the last three months? Could we have done more to keep him mobile?
All imponderables. On the debit side of Blythburgh are the feeling of crowding, the TV room full of stale smoke because no-one can replace the air extractor, and the constant presence of old men coughing – great chest-ripping, rheumy roars rattling their ribs, a truly awful sound. On the credit side, the enthusiasm and spirit of the staff, which counts for a lot. It’s busy, too – Christmas trees, trolleys with various goodies on are wheeled through the wards by middle-class, middle-aged social workers with tweedy skirts.
On the whole I feel the credits outweigh the debits, but there’s no escaping the wretchedness of his condition.
Saturday, December 25th
The weather’s good – cold enough for fires and other housebound comforts, but bright and sunny too. And silence over Gospel Oak – only the sound of a dog barking – the rush and bustle of London is off the streets and indoors.
After breakfast helped prepare tables and things. Helen had polished all the family silver, which glistened on the white tablecloth in spectacular fashion.
The only really new departure from the traditional family Christmas was taking Tom, Willy and Catherine to the Holiday Inn for a pre-lunch swim. We were about the only people there. Great spirit of Christmas – the attendants threw each other in fully-clothed whilst Tom and Willy and Cath watched open-mouthed.
All went well, despite Mary and Ed forgetting the Christmas pud and Ed uncharacteristically dropping it on the floor when he went back for it.
Everyone went home about eleven. I think I’ve learnt to handle these family Christmases a bit better. I feel tired, but not heavy, fat or blotto with it. Sit and appreciate the tiredness over a film in the excellent BBC ‘Christmas with Cagney’ selection. I find Cagney quite mesmeric.
Thursday, December 30th
Trying to write a Jabberwocky trailer whilst Rachel sits on one knee playing with the telephone – ‘Hello Granny,’ ad nauseam. In the middle of all this, the Health Visitor arrives – an unexpected bonus, as she looks after Rachel for a quarter of an hour, whilst seeing if she can walk and talk properly.
Drive out to Shepperton to meet Graham Ford, general manager of the studios. I had arranged to meet him on my own initiative, just to get a little background on how Shepperton works from the man on the shop floor, as it were, rather than the directors, of whom I am now officially one.
Ford is young (around my age), thinning hair, waistcoat stretched over an incipient paunch, looks like the young manager of a prosperous record store. Smart office – the only part of the Shepperton complex that looks at all dynamic.
Over lunch he elaborates on the rumour I’ve heard that he doesn’t get on with Clive [Hollick]. In fact, he likes Clive personally, but makes the very good point that Clive is a director of several companies, not just Shepperton, and Ford feels that Shepperton is just a name on a list. Though from my talks with Clive I feel he is in sympathy with Ford’s desire to brighten up Shepperton, I quite appreciate that his decisions take a long time to come through.
I come away feeling that, as a director without sixteen other directorships, I could be the one who cares most and most directly about Shepperton. We agree to meet and chat regularly.
1 Charles Alverson, American thriller-writer friend of TG.
2 Terry’s brother and sister-in-law.
1 Our legal adviser at the time. Later manager of Queen.
1 Roy Jenkins. Labour government’s Home Secretary.
1 The name came from a suggestion by Terry’s brother, Nigel, who’d spotted a book on one of Terry’s shelves with a similar style of schoolboy