Nick Walker's profession? Gentleman ...
I have a boast. I have a valet, of sorts. A gentleman’s gentleman,
certainly. In fact, I have had more than one. I have had two, maybe three.
The others have been home helps, provided by the local council. But, once in
a while I have had the privilege of more than the textbook reading and I
could say I have had a valet. It is a very special event: a luxury blooming
from a necessity.
The background: ever since my health began its relentless bungee jumping, I
have been under the auspices of the Chronically sick and Disabled Act. I am
twenty-nine and a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis four years ago now sees me
employing a fleet of wheelchairs and electric scooters.
My breakfast is made for me and a paper and shopping essentials are bought.
Usually, this is timed so that I can unwrap the paper just as my cornflakes
and coffee are placed in front of me. On regular days, my floor is hoovered,
the kitchen left immaculate and the bathroom rendered that spooky glowing
white you normally only see in television adverts. The tag ‘home help’ is,
I find, a little soulless. It fails to convey the sense of dignity I was given
by help from the likes of a Mr McDonald.
Style. Donald Campbell had style. He would sit and delicately roll thin
cigarettes as he and I talked, talked about what? Well, crosswords. Mr
Campbell would challenge the Mirror, and I would grapple unsuccessfully with
the Independent. He had a quick mind, but he was never over-hurried with his
wit or too pleased by his own conclusions, When thrown a clue, he’d offer
take-it-or-leave suggestions. All the rest of the stuff was done. The
kitchen, immaculate. The laundry sorted.
My sense of self-respect has never felt so under threat as when faced with
the rank indignities of disease. If you suffer from bowel incontinence, as I
have on the occasional morning, you need professional help at hand, someone
who knows how to roll up his or her sleeves and get on with it, as it were.
The thought of inflicting the task on a sibling or a loved one would be a
double injury. Worst is the idea of a panicked stranger wearing an
expression that reflects a horror I wouldn’t want to inflict on another
soul.
I get all this, I am simply unsure what to call it. Professional carer?
Career home help? Intimate personal assistant? None of these seem to cover
the task of describing a job which when done well can do so much. So, I’ll
stick to ‘valet’. Anachronistic, yes, but the true professional knows how
not to mind the words of a boast.
