"Sleep that knits up the ravelle'd sleave of care. . ." How often have I thought of those words from Macbeth. Sleep has dropped a few thousand stitches in my time and I can scarcely recall four consecutive hours (undrugged) in my maturity. The most intolerable aspect of this is what one does between the abrupt awakening and the pallid dawn without depriving the rest of the household of its slumber.
In may case - my innumerable cases - I try to think of some accomplishment, some feat, some success I may have enjoyed, and savour it again. This, however, does not occupy me for long since the number of such minor triumphs is remarkably few. Instead the mind locks solidly on any one of the many clangers I've dropped, on the many instances where I have ignored the golden rule that a closed mouth gathers no feet, on the many enemies I've made by firing off what seemed at the time a witty wisecrack.
Californian wine
All too often I remember a flight to America to promote on radio and TV the excellence of Jameson whiskey. San Francisco was to be the launch-pad for this exercise and it was thence we were headed at 35,000 feet, give or take a metre. I was in excellent form, with ample room for once in the sunlit aeroplane, and I sat fondly regarding a very large glass of chilled Californian wine on the little table which hinged down from the back of the seat in front.
My fond regard was disrupted when the occupant of said seat rocked with hearty mirth at some bon mot from his female companion and in so rocking decanted my wine into my lap. I watched dully for a second or two until the chill began to penetrate my natty blue slacks and then my Y-fronts.
The senior stewardess stopped beside me and we both gazed at my nether regions, she struggling not to laugh and me not to cry. "Hey," she said, "No one told me there was coq au vin on our menu today." She hurried off to bring me reams of paper towels which I stuffed down by trousers - it was chilly indeed south of the border.
During the baggage collection at San Francisco and the endless wait for a taxi I clutched a briefcase to my front, unaware for some minutes that the stain had spread around to the back as well - these are things I would prefer to forget, but cannot. I was beginning to smell like a fermenting grape in the hot California sunshine and the cab driver gave up his air-conditioning as a bad job and ostentatiously opened both his windows. We took a long time, it seemed to me, to reach one of the very best hotels in that city.
My room, when I finally reached it after the anguish of crossing the lobby and registering and leaving the elevator smelling like the Napa Valley, was large, spacious and dark, but when the porter pulled back the thick drapes it was flooded with the brightest of sunlight from a window facing Nob Hill. I leaned out the window and found a huge sill of red sandstone which was so hot as to be almost untouchable. The thought occurred: Couldn't I dry off the wine-drenched trousers quickly and well enough to save me having to make embarrassing explanations when I called the valet? I spread them on the broad expanse of sandstone and made for the shower.
Tony Bennett
Never was warm water and soapy lather more exquisite - so much so that I broke into a rendition of Mr Tony Bennett's nostalgiac lament and wondered if he'd ever caught up with his heart. In the midst of this the room door was opened and a maid enquired if she could leave some more towels. She could and did and then exited, closing the door firmly behind her.
I emerged from the hot suds, all rosy and perfumed, wondering how the pants were cooking. The window-sill was empty, trouserless. They must have fallen out when the maid slammed the door and were doubtless nestling somewhere in the immaculately manicured gardens? I leaned out as far as I could before Isaac Newton took over and stared down the nine storeys. Not a sign. I felt weak as a thought struck me: could they have landed on some immensely important person just entering the hotel only to get Bonner's pants in his diplomatic mush?
I dressed quickly and descended to search the lawns and shrubbery, much to the astonishment of those patrons having their pre-dinner drinks in the bar overlooking this scene. No sign of pants. I walked up Nob Hill and, looking back from the summit, saw that they were actually lodged against the wall over the 20-foot-high entrance canopy of the hotel.
I was feeling far from well and every pore was working overtime. How could they be retrieved without their origin and passage being revealed? Could I wait till dusk and climb the wisteria - but suppose I was caught in that act? Would they believe it if I claimed to have been called out urgently to investigate a reported crack in the facade?
I wandered back into the lobby in search of a friendly face, of which there seemed a remarkable shortage. There was a small, isolated desk in the middle of the area: a triangular piece of wood on it assured an uncaring world that it was normally occupied by Hal. J. Dwenk, Asst Floor Mgr. Clearly Hal was elsewhere at that moment. I sat in his chair and looked at the list of telephone numbers typed on a sheet beneath the glass top. One caught my eye: "Resident Engineer". I dialled it. A cheerful young voice answered immediately and announced its name was Douglas.
Strange stories
"Douglas," I said, giving my name and room number, "You hear some strange stories in this hotel, do you not?"
"Do we ever," he said from the heart.
"Well," I advised him, "hold on to your Stillson wrench whilst I tell you the oddest one yet."
He listened without interruption. "Yep," he said when I'd quavered to a halt, "that one's sure up there amongst the crumbled cookies. But if you give me about 20 minutes to finish what I'm at, I'll get a ladder and rescue them."
Right enough he emerged from the depths with a telescopic ladder and ascended rapidly to reappear with his hands empty but a large bulge in the top of his overalls. It was then I noticed that a highly-coiffured grande dame had also been watching this activity while her husband was supervising the removal of their luggage from the boot of a very expensive chariot.
"Edgar," she twittered, "I saw that man lifting a pair of pants from the top of that canopy -- maybe he stole them from some room." Edgar rolled his eyes, probably wondering if the weekly visits to her shrink were worthwhile.
Leaving them twittering and eye-rolling, I guided Douglas up to my room and there we sat, feet up on the aforementioned red sandstone sill, while I introduced him to the calming, restorative influence of Jameson whiskey. It was the first drink I'd had that long and anguishing day, but who would believe it?