You Have Not a Leg to Stand On by D.D. Mayers Page B

in 1981, was an incredible, out-of-the-blue, opportunity, to save us from my overriding depth of worthlessness, of my life, not serving any purpose. There was no point in having a survey; the building was a burnt-out, London stock brick shell, with no roof. The thick brick walls were built sitting directly on the clay London is built on. It was probably built in about the 1850s when the London docks were at the peak of their worldwide trading network. But modern building regulations stipulate brick walls must sit on concrete or a similar material as a solid foundation. This seemed to me to be an impossible demand, least of all because the building had happily stood there, with no movement for more than a hundred years. But our very clever new friend and architect, Colin White, who lived opposite us in Marriott’s mews, worked out an ingenious, relatively simple way to solve the problem. The clay had to be cut out in arches underneath the brick walls only two at a time, then the arches filled with concrete and allowed to set for a few days. This tiresome procedure was carried out until the whole building was sitting on the top of all the new concrete arches. The rest of the clay, between the arches, was then dug away and filled with concrete. The entire structure of about 100ft deep, 50ft wide and three stories high now sat comfortably, on its new foundation of 300 tons of spanking new concrete.
    The design of the interior could now materialise. My wife has a natural eye for design and so has Colin. Two cooks in the kitchen is a recipe for conflict. But they managed to steer gingerly around each other for the next three years it took to create, and the outcome was spectacular.
    We had all this and had done all I’ve described, and yet we were both on the edge. I can see clearly now why it was my poor little wife was in such despair. But then, when I found her curled up on the end of the sofa, sobbing her heart out, I said, ‘What’s the matter?’
    I was so immersed, enveloped in my own deep misery at being cut in two, tied for the rest of my life to this primitive, cursed contraption of a wheelchair. I couldn’t see the devastating effect I was having on the people closest to me. I’d started to drink a bit too much whisky. After a very nice supper with a bottle of wine, we’d watch television, then maybe turn off all the lights and watch the nightlife on the river. My little wife would go to bed and I’d stay in the sitting room, with a glass of whisky, listening to very loud music on my headphones. On the very first night in the warehouse, having moved away from the womb of our wonderful Marriott’s house in Notting Hill Gate; the vicar of Rotherhithe arrived, with a bottle of whisky, to welcome us to his Parish. He stayed and stayed and I happily drank and drank. When trying to transfer out of the wheelchair into bed, I collapsed on the floor and, without knowing, my leg snapped in two just below the knee. My exasperated but forbearing little wife, struggled, with all her might, to lift my deadweight back into the chair and on to the bed. It wasn’t until the morning, when I pulled back the duvet, the sight of my massive, swollen leg, caught me unaware, causing me to almost pass out.
    The ambulance drove me to A&E at St. Thomas’ Hospital. There they decided to plate it together, rather than put me in plaster, because of the possibilities of pressure sores. The bane of a paraplegic’s life. This whole procedure required a week’s stay in the hospital.
    It was not possible for my battered, bruised, and now desperate little wife to be completely alone for a week in that warehouse. There was no alternative but to retreat to the safety of Marriott’s home in Notting Hill Gate.
    Unfortunately we only lived at the warehouse for three years. I think it was during those three years I became aware that the agony I was going through was of my own making. If it was of my own