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203 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2002
“It’s lucky that Prozac isn’t as good as it’s made out to be or you’d never get any sex at all. Have you ever slept with anyone who wasn’t a mental case?”
I think about this.
“Not for some time. But it’s not my fault. I can’t help it if all the women I meet are bulimic, anorexic, agoraphobic, schizophrenic, clinically depressed, manically depressed, full of self-loathing, self-destructive, suicidal or otherwise struggling to find a reason to keep on living. I don’t know what’s the matter with them all.”
“This doesn’t prevent you from luring them into bed by listening to their problems.”
I admit that this is true. I have often benefited from the problems of my female friends.
”We had a pint in a pub in town, went to my house, watched videos, listened to music, and finally retired to bed with a bottle of whisky, six beers and two packets of cigarettes. And what was the result of that behaviour? My stomach never felt better.”
“So what you’re really saying,” says Manx, “is that if women, including for instance women twenty years younger than you, visit you in London and sleep with you on a regular basis, then you will receive great benefits in health?”
“Absolutely. Both physically and mentally. But try telling this to doctors and they won’t go along with it at all. They just tell you to eat yoghurt.”
Manx points out that even if the doctors did go along with it, it wouldn’t really solve the problem.
“After all, it’s not like they could prescribe you a regular supply of nurses.”
I get a brief, happy vision of walking out of the hospital with a big prescription for nurses. […]
“So how’s the stomach today?”
“It’s gone bad again,” I admit. “And Frances has gone back to Southampton so I’m probably in for a prolonged bout of illness. It’s a tough life, all in all, and getting older is really annoying.”