Long life | 9 June 2016

I’m back in England after travelling from Italy by railway, because I have been forbidden to fly in case the altitude affects my wobbly brain. It was rather a complicated train journey, involving changes in Florence, Milan and Paris, but rather exciting. Florence looked wonderful, as did Paris, and, perhaps because of my brain damage, even Milan seemed rather beautiful. Only London appeared dull and drab on arrival. The other excitement was that I travelled as an invalid because of the brain haemorrhage suffered during my holiday in Tuscany. I can in fact walk perfectly well; but, thanks to the members of my family who had made meticulous preparations and accompanied me during the journey, I was met at every station by a man with a wheelchair and treated on every occasion with the greatest consideration. Even the French were exquisitely polite and attentive.

Being an invalid is rather addictive. Everyone is kind to you, everything is done for you, and you don’t have to make any plans for yourself. The problem is that you needn’t think and may forget how to do so. This, of course, suits very well those who are looking after you. It is much easier for carers to look after someone who doesn’t do any thinking but leaves it all to them. But it is strange for you to lose all control over your life, even to the extent of being kept in the dark about what’s going to happen to you next. You begin to wonder what the point of you is.

For a time, when I couldn’t even read (I’m glad to say that I can now), I would only think about what the next meal was going to be and would do nothing at all but watch television.