Clapham omnibus

I'm eccentric, not mad
March 20, 2000

The letters landing on the hall floor sometimes get me up. If they are startling enough, I stay up. Today, one is from an official at Brixton Community Mental Health Centre. "We have received a request from a member of our team (no more than two) to meet with you." The letter is signed by a female nurse therapist who will visit me at my home on Friday next.

I do not know whether to be more outraged by the sloppy grammar or the fact that someone-who isn't even named-has decided I may be mad. I am bursting to ring the therapist and explain that, although I am an isolated eccentric, I am certainly not a madman. I try calling her several times, and finally at about 10am I get through.

"I was very disturbed to get your letter," I say.



"Yes, I expect you were. These things are disturbing."

"How did you get my name?"

"Your local housing officer referred you. Didn't she tell you about it?"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, that was bad," says the nurse, who sounds young and very sensible. "I'm afraid she didn't follow the proper procedure."

"No, what a bloody cheek. But why did she give you my name?"

"Well, apparently, Mr Hills, your flat is very untidy."

"Yes, it's an absolute tip. But since when has that, in the case of a man living on his own, been viewed as a sign of incipient madness?"

"I agree, it is very strange. Do you still want us to come and visit you?"

"Well, I have a problem of water penetration in my second bedroom, which the council has done absolutely nothing about for 20 years. I've been a leaseholder for four years, but the council is still responsible for the building. Would you be able to give any help with that?"

"Well, certainly we could recommend help with such problems."

"Oh, well then, come. I'll have to try not to act too bonkers."

She laughs, and the phone call ends like a conversation between friends. I now phone round all my acquaintances; some of them find it amusing, others outrageous. I go to the Baptist pop-in lunch in Clapham old town, and retail the story there. An Italian mamma and her severely depressed son, in his late 20s, are present. Between them on the table is a bottle of cherryade. "If there are rats under the bed," screams the mamma, "if you haven't cleaned up in 20 years, if there is excrement on the floor...," and so on until the son throws the cherryade over her.

I am belatedly attempting to tidy up, and the front door is wide open for air, when the mad people arrive. There are three of them, not two, but the sensible-looking blonde, my friend, explains that the shy-looking teenage girl is a student. The third mad person is a brawny Asian. Their equipment is not too obtrusive.

They sit down in a circle around me, and the head nurse begins asking me about how integrated I am on the estate. "Well, I think I am," I say. "Of course, in the early days I was mugged, and I had a problem with broken windows."

"You broke windows?" asks the male nurse threateningly.

"No, Sanjit," explains his superior, "he means that the local thugs broke his windows. Actually, I don't think this flat is quite as untidy as they say. I've seen worse."

"Well, I think it's pretty terrible," I say. "But I get very depressed sometimes. Well, not that depressed," I add hurriedly.

She has obviously decided immediately that I am not mad-perhaps she even knew it on the phone. I tell her I am a teacher of Portuguese, and she says that the mad people need interpreters. She promises to speak sharply to the housing officer for having referred me, rather than trying to deal with my water penetration problem.

Her subordinate is disappointed that I have not been given more of a going-over. As they are leaving, he asks me whether I have ever kept a pet. I explain that it would be cruel to keep a pet in such conditions, except perhaps a budgerigar, but I am not fond of animals.

A few weeks later, the housing officer writes that she is coming round to see me about the water penetration. I take advice about how to deal with her. Be very calm and businesslike, they tell me. Don't mention the mad people unless they come up in conversation.

The housing officer is a black woman, and so is the companion she brings. I lead them into the surreal confusion of the second bedroom. They note with reasonable impassiveness the appalling condition of the ceiling-plaster where endless water has come down from the upstairs flats for over 20 years.

They promise to take action. Then the companion says, "Actually, there is another matter."

"Oh, what is it?"

"Well, our records show that you haven't been paying your service charge. You owe us ?700."

I go into a long rigmarole of apology. I explain that I am unemployed, that I will find the money from someone, that my mother is wealthy, that there will be ways. They say the council is going to prosecute me. Leaseholders have responsibilities. They say they must write to my mortgage-lender to inform them of the situation. Where are the details of my lender? Those details must be available at all times.

"This flat needs clearing up to find those details, doesn't it?" says the housing officer.

Suddenly I am shouting at her, "Why did you say I was mad? Get out! Get out!"

I bundle them away, and escape on the train far into southeast London.