Charlotte Grimshaw: On being labelled mad
The Tower of London: A home fit for a fallen prince. Photo / Getty Images
Waking up in theatre after surgery last week, I made a polite but firm announcement. “Something terrible has happened. I need an ambulance.” When no one responded I said, “I don’t know who you people are, but I need a doctor.” The anaesthetist, to our later mutual amusement, made a conjuring gesture and said brightly, “And here we are.”
Once the mists had cleared, I lay on my high-tech recovery barge and contemplated the question of mental stability.
When not under the influence of anaesthetic drugs, I consider myself averagely lucid, able to string a sentence together, capable of abstract thought. I have clear opinions, a sense of humour and am conscientious. And yet frequently in the last few years, I have been labelled unstable, delusional, incoherent – all variations on “crazy”.
Everything I write, whether fiction or non-fiction, conforms to a detailed, structured, literary plan. Yet I still get told I’m a lunatic. I wondered, as I recalled the fleeting experience of genuine delusion (the anaesthetist told me the drugs she’d used often cause hallucinations), whether it’s because I’m a woman. Is this a feminist issue? Is one man’s “unstable” a version of Trump’s “nasty woman”? Are men who express critical opinions so frequently labelled mad?
Perhaps if I were the kind of nice local author who tactically, cannily, never writes a public critical opinion, I might never be labelled insane.
I could have called my latest novel A Cat May Look at a King. A cat may look at a king, and a writer may look at political tyrants and petty ones, and assign them a place in the animal kingdom. It’s customary that the rude inspection of power attracts accusations of delusion. In some countries, it attracts worse: arrest. Or murder in the stairwell, or a dose of poison. The cat should go on looking fearlessly at the king, so the king doesn’t get out of hand.
This was my train of thought as I reclined. Machines beeped, people bustled about. I was wheeled somewhere and handed my bag. I extracted my phone and briskly completed two fiendish online word puzzles. This didn’t mean I wasn’t incoherent, but it seemed a promising sign.
My eye caught a newsflash about Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor, arrested on suspicion of misconduct in public office. Now there’s a man who appears (based on allegations) to deserve all a king could throw at him.
The world looks forward to a sensational trial: The King v His Brother. What will this do for the royals? It could be a great spectacle, steeped in heritage and culture, the kind that bolsters Brand Britain. The British do these things so well. The pageantry, the hushed BBC commentary, the nation holding its breath; horses, carriages. What ceremonial role for Fergie?
Following ancient tradition (remember his coronation with the extra-tall crowns? I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my chair), the King could imprison his brother in the Tower of London. It would do the Beefeaters good to have a real prisoner, and think of the boost for tourism.