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This Intimation of Mortality should provide a laugh a line diary. Three vertebra are crumbling so I shuffle round on two walking sticks. Just like a trainee member of the House of Lords. Indeed one attendant actually addressed me as "My Lord".
I'm allowed to speak sitting down which puzzles constituents, though Elfyn Llwyd tells people it's because I'm now an alcoholic. The consolation prize is that I don't have to stay to vote on some of our dafter legislation. Such as ID Cards and glorification of terrorism.
Thursday 23 March
Manage three meetings without groaning too loudly. There are consolations to back problems. Inability to move means more mail done and a heavy diet of pain killers makes me so much happier about Party policy.
It also makes me an ever greater fan of the NHS where diagnosis was speedy, treatment superb. Only a publicly funded service available at the time of need could work as effectively as they've done for me.
Tuesday 4 April
My operation called Vertebroplasty was developed in Glasgow, though not with the encouragement of Tommy McAvoy who's probably suspicious of anything that builds backbones in backbenchers. Because it's experimental I can go in early on the NHS at the Chelsea and Westminster to allow a new team to develop its skills. Unfortunately that means losing the recess. Anything to get rid of this pain.
Clutching my little bag of illegals ??? I'm told the Chelsea and Westminster joke 16 times before I even reach the ward. Why are the cities that way round? Because if Westminster came first it would be the Royal WC. This is going to be hard.
Put in a ward of six where most stare stolidly ahead, just like the Whips' Office. I'm attached to a drip feed which now has to trundle everywhere behind me. Probably it's sending signals to Tommy.
Wednesday 5 April
After a night punctuated by cries of "I've wet the bed" "Help" "Get me out of here" – and that's just me – the doctors arrive at 7.00 to brief me on the operation and get me to sign a consent form. 9.30 no signs of action. 10.00 no chance of it. My blood's too thin. It's what happens to New Labour. Come back next week.
Tuesday 11 April
Once more into the C & W. This time everything goes according to plan. The ward staff are mainly Phillipino and very interested in my reactions after the IPU visit there two years ago when we were able to expose the racket of agents making big charges to nurses to come to Britain while at the same time charging the NHS to send them. Certainly the C&W couldn't operate without their great caring skills.
Wednesday 12 April
Operation goes according to plan. Or so they tell me because I wasn't there. As I went under they told me to think happy thoughts so I dreamed of my free peerage won as a prize in Tony's great Easter Raffle. That should be nice provided Tony hasn't debased the place too far by the summer. Still, his fat friends probably won't want to attend much and certainly won't associate with the likes of me.
Woken up in the afternoon. Most of the pain has gone and most of my brain with it. Endless phone calls from grandchildren all offering to come and look after me. For money. I can't speak too highly of the ward staff, the doctors, the C&W or the NHS generally. Indeed the only setback was when I revealed to my "night angel" that I'd soon be back on my feet in the House of Commons. He said "What a shame". Presumably a linguistic difficulty.
Friday 14 April
Still woosy but much better. Perhaps I'll be like it forever – the perfect Backbencher. The constipation produced by codeine painkillers has turned to clockwork diarrhoea every half hour. Wait until the intervals widen to an hour, then dash North, belting between each service station and arriving home much thinner.
Saturday 15 April
These days I read the newspapers – all of them until they're worn out. Today they're full of government's climb down on the "deregulation" bill.
I've been getting substantial mail on this. At first I wrote back sending the briefings and repeating government promises that the powers wouldn't be abused. Then I got more detailed replies and began to write that I was getting doubtful about it. Now come Cambridge law professors telling us it will permit all sorts of dictatorship. So Jim Murphy who was stolidly defending the indefensible has announced that it's all been a terrible mistake. That's on a par with this week's other retraction: patient forums. When we fought to retain Community Health Councils, most of which did an excellent job, Hazel Blears promised they'd be replaced by "something better". Now the something better, which was disastrous from the start, has been junked. Leaving nothing.
They treat us like fools, ready to support any lunacy and to be marched to the top of any hill on any half-baked whim, then marched down again in shame. We're allowed no say on the major issues, just bamboozled by half-baked briefings written by children and are firmly kept out of the one issue that matters: Blair versus Brown, to which we're appalled spectators.
Same with the Education (Sale of Schools) Bill. Ruth has now decided that loyal authorities after being stripped of powers will be given power to save the failing. How can they do that without power over selection to ensure the able and the disadvantaged kids are distributed fairly?
Sunday 16 April
After managing a 100 yard walk to the corner, Linda, who's been marvellous throughout, agrees to drive me out to photograph the new season's lambs. Even though I've equipped myself with Jessop's mightiest zoom (which Linda has to hold) the little bastards are all out of focus as they run away and I wobble on my sticks.
Monday 17 April
A leisurely drive to London. Insofar as the mass return to work at 30 mph can be pleasant.
Tuesday 18 April
First day back. Delivered by Linda bright and early, except that gas main work has blocked Victoria Street. "Don't look as though you're miserable or they'll write you off" says Linda and zooms off. So I go in with an asinine grin to have a man with a machine gun asking everyone "Who's this bloke?" Crippledom is a new perspective on life in Parliament. Staff are wonderfully helpful and some Members very concerned. Most just rush past. As for the gangs of kids who run the place, they don't even notice an aged cripple blocking their way.
"Take the adjustment slowly" the doctors say. So I do. I was going to drop in on Tommy and show how lean and supple I'm not, but decide that it might be better to give the impression I'm still at death's door because there's probably more bad Bills to come.
Afternoon
About to leave the room after our NUJ meeting when in walk the next users, Weightwatchers. So I seize the opportunity to have my first weighing this year. Loss 19 lbs, despite the amount of Portland cement injected into my spine. "I must be your champion?" They promptly disqualify me for not using Weightwatchers' methods.
Home by taxi. Knackered but in time to see the worst Labour PPB I've ever seen. Folk don't like personal abuse. It would have been enough to break the news that Dave's affiliating the Tory Party to the Girl Guides and leave it at that.
Wednesday, 19 April
Wake up with a balloon-like sore right foot. Agony. The doctor thinks I've overdone my re-introduction and by using only one walking stick I've placed too much weight on the right. "Go home and sit with your foot in a bucket of cold water" he advises. I do, and after an hour the water is warm enough to make tea. This could be my energy conservation tip. Now I'm giving such a convincing impression of an old Tory buffer on sticks the Tories are busily expelling the type in favour of pimply public school lads, and women with any attitude but prone. At this rate I'll never be fit enough to be part of Gordon Brown's Youth Vanguard.
Thursday 20 April
Struggle in to meet Bryan Gould on a visit home. What a loss. In his day we used to take ideas seriously, discuss politics and policies, feel strongly about issues. Now why waste our time on ideas when it's so much easier to smile, go with the flow, and do nothing to frighten money.
I'm only just beginning to realise how much political life depends on a strong physique. The constitution of an ox and the brain (and sensitivity) to match. Perhaps if I get people to wheel me round Grimsby in a wheel chair I can get the sympathy vote. But I might not. The Grimsby Telegraph's account of my hospital treatment was promptly followed by a letter saying I'm too old for the job anyway, and falling in bits is clear proof. |
