Bernard Jones and the Temple of Mammon: The continuing diary of a cantankerous investor by Nick Louth

Author:Nick Louth [Louth, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857193759
Publisher: Harriman House
Published: 2013-11-11T00:00:00+00:00

Saturday 12th May: In Delia Smith’s Kitchen

4am. Awoke with awful thumping headache. However, the thumping wasn’t confined to my head as the tap-tap-tap of a headboard on the party wall revealed. Got up, lurched into the bathroom and was sick. Fell back to sleep, but awoke again two hours later to the same refrain. In the next room, heard Martin snoring, so crept downstairs to watch the dawn break. Had completely forgotten about Blunkett, who came panting out to greet me and began whining for food.

8.30am. Went next door and shared a coffee with a dishevelled Delia, who was wearing an obscenely short bathrobe. Harry, she told me, was in a dead sleep. “Well, almost all of him,” she added, with a mischievous giggle. Rather than inquire after the exceptions, I offered to wash up last night’s dishes. This turned out to be a more strenuous activity than normal, much of it requiring hammer and chisel rather than a gentle application of suds. Between vigorous sessions with the Brillo, she told me the poignant tale of her abandonment, her financial struggle to bring up three children on income support and housing benefit, and now that they too had left home, her loneliness. Completely unexpectedly, she turned, put her arms around me and began to cry on my shoulder.

“Is that how your life is too?” she asked, sunken and make-up streaked eyes looking into mine. “A complete wreck?”

“No, no, not at all,” I said, examining the mascara streaks just deposited on my shirt. “I’m very lucky. Eunice and I are well-suited.” This statement was perhaps less out of loyalty than a determination not to bond further with this promiscuous panda. Who knows where further encouragement would lead?

Martin arrived shortly, and after a big mug of Delia’s tea (milk on the turn, not-quite-boiling water) we were offered a cooked breakfast. Cereal and toast would have been wiser, but after a skin full of Old Speckled Hen only a fry-up will do. So while we waited for Harry to emerge, Delia deep-fried half a dozen Morrison economy bangers (which spat then exploded), immolated six rashers of streaky bacon (shattered on fork impact), and drowned three eggs (the rubbery mess entangled in a crazy paving of broken shell). The fried bread was like the bilge rag of the Amoco Cadiz, while the black pudding had fossilized into clinker. While Martin and I fought for toast and marmalade to ease down this charnel house breakfast, Delia chattered about her kids, and her ex, Stanley. Soon afterwards, Delia disappeared upstairs for another energetic hour with the headboard. Poor Harry!

11.30am. Martin took Blunkett for a two mile walk. Delia now down and fully dressed. Harry had still not emerged. Went up with a cup of Delia’s ‘tea’ to see if he was ready to rejoin the land of the living (until the first poisonous sip, of course), but was unprepared for the sight I beheld. Harry was still snoring, the centrepiece of a jumble sale of discarded clothing, greying pillows and the rank odour of human sweat.

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