London: 30th June 1995
My dear folks,
I dropped a bottle on my toe last night, reminding myself - after years of amicable relations with my extremities - what wicked offence they take when treated badly. As the bolt of agony gradually subsided into mere anguished pulsations, I looked down to find the tormented part gashed & gory. This gave me some satisfaction. Here at least was living proof of my sufferings. There's no frustration like feeling terrible & looking good. Not that one gets much sympathy from old Mave. One doesn't. I can't think how I came to drop the bottle. It was large plastic one holding skin cream. Mind you, I'd been down for a drink & a chat with my neighbour, Stefania. Her man was away & we philosophised over a bottle of wine. It was a lovely evening. I must have put a dash more brandy than I'd calculated in my coffee later because I had to blink a couple of times this morning when I woke. Just a couple of blinks, you understand, not amounting to a sore head. One needs these little reminders from time to time.
It's the start of my weekend. Two glorious days stretch out like Mave on the carpet. Just so nice! I've got nothing lined up except a few letters & a quiet walk, maybe a ride to Sainsburys to top up the microwavables. Two weeks to go & I'm on hols. My stint on Asia Today has flown. Already, my replacement is starting to trail me. She has all kinds of ideas but her head's in the clouds. She's got a fortnight to get her feet on the ground. It could be a bumpy landing. I shall watch with interest as I prepare myself to return to the galley. It's been a pleasant few months & I've learned much about Asia where, I suspect, much of the 21st century is going to take place.
My Bizet is busy playing his Carmen Suites. The music exactly matches my mood & dances in & out of the shelves & books lining the wall behind the desk. The news bulletins show us glimpses of actress & model, Liz Hurley, who has taken herself to an expensive country retreat, expressing sadness & bewilderment at the news that boyfriend, actor Hugh Grant, was caught having it off with a tart in a car in Los Angeles, where he was promoting his new film. She has expressed a wish for privacy while she reflects on their future. This has not deterred dozens of hacks from grubbing around the gates & over the walls for a whiff of news. Later bulletins show us more glimpses of her and the newly-returned Grant talking in a greenhouse (& a double bed being delivered to the house!) What can they be saying, I wonder?
Meanwhile, long welcome letters from Ann & Kevin as well as Germany & Portugal. And brief, satisfying conversations with Mother, at whose recovery we rejoice. I do wish we could rejoice a little closer Mum. But fate has dispersed us. Hallelujah for faxes & phones (& email. One of my old SABC cronies has just got company email & promptly experimented by sending me a delighted letter. I responded in kind & said I'd add her to the Folks-All list instead of writing twice a year. The Beeb is gradually putting everyone on email too but it's not clear to me if it's just an in-house version.)
As to the Canadians, I have never heard my brother wax so lyrical as over the shriek of racing cars, pouring out peerless paragraphs of poetry. No doubt but the bug has bit. You can fake an orgasm but not that kind of passion. Great stuff, boet that you have been able to combine your love & your living, & that all the family have found their own niches in the process. We hold thumbs over the dealership!
Annie, I envy you your walks & tranquil views. I do wish you'd keep those dratted geese over there, mind you. They're taking over English waters as well & driving the little guys out. Life's so comfortable here they don't bother to migrate. Fecund isn't in it. They go from eggs to goslings to golloping geese in a couple of weeks. They prowl the lake at Regent's Park on a "stand & deliver" basis. The one Canadian import that has gone down well is young (newly-nationalised) Greg Rusedski, whose tennis feats at Wimbledon have been wowing the crowds. In spite of 31 degree temps. (7 degrees higher than in the Algarve, as the TV bulletins point out) he's been leaping effortlessly about, smiling & above all - very unBritish - actually winning. He's the only "Brit" left in the singles, he's through to the final 16 & he's rapidly becoming a national hero.
The nation remains convulsed with the leadership battle for the Conservative Party. After the tide appeared to flowing rightwinger, John Redwood's way, earlier in the week, it now seems to be ebbing away from him again. John Major gave his supporters (badly-needed) new heart with a fine display in the Commons yesterday. Mr Redwood has now warned Tory MPs that they are liable to lose their seats at the next election unless they vote for him on Tuesday. The truth of the matter is that they are liable to lose their seats whoever they vote for, but the odds on Major are shortening again. What a circus! What obfuscation! The candidates & their backers are indulging in fierce rhetoric, declaring (falsely) that they're making things clear when nothing's clear except their desire to win. We are reminded that power is the ultimate prize. People may sell their bodies for money, for power they sell their souls.
Mave is noshing his grub outside on the patio. I've locked him out after dosing him with a potent flea killer, a nasty organo-phosphate that one squeezes on to the skin at the shoulders where he can't get at it. It turns the cat into a kind of toxic flea carpet, dire but effective. And since he shares the furniture & makes himself at home on sleepers early in the morning, he's preferable flealess. One is advised to keep a beast at arm's length for 24 hours after dosing it & he's due to spend the night outside. He won't be pleased. It's not his style.
Stefania has just popped upstairs with a Dutch friend who is due to join her & Herman on holiday for two weeks. I'm looking after their garden and fat cat while they're away. They'll return the compliment for the 2nd half of the month while I'm in Portugal. Our timing is fortuitous but blessed. Our cats are pretty self reliant but do require regular feeding & watering. Mavis further requires regular letting in & out as he lords it around the neighbourhood. Even more important are the gardens, hers in the basement & ours on the patio, which cannot go a fortnight without water in high summer. Right now, I'm dousing our plants each evening to sustain them. Hell but it's hot.
I started this letter early in the morning. I'm finishing it in the evening. Jones has just phoned with news from Portugal. So let me call a halt and get this off.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
29June1995
London: 29th June 1995
My dear folks,
Especially my dear mother who, I hope, returns home today from hospital with the rocky recent past well and truly behind her. Mum, our thoughts have been much with you. Thank you Cathy for your fax for Barbara which I have passed on to her. And thank you Jones for your fax of yesterday. I got home late, yet again, from a complicated afternoon of packaging and subtitling an interview in Japanese with two survivors of the bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
My attention was demanded first by Fats & then the thirsty flowers & then phone messages & correspondence. So this fax has had to wait. Cathy & Jones will be aware that I discovered on Tuesday when I was buying a new bike that I ought to be covered by Barclaycard for the loss of the previous one under their 100 day cover policy. I knew nothing of it. The cycle shop owner brought it to my attention. He couldn't believe that I had not seen the relevant TV commercial showing Rowan Atkinson emerging from a souk in Egypt with a carpet, the end of which had caught fire. I confessed that I had not (as I always turn the sound off during commercials & ignore them.) At his prompting, I phoned Barclaycard who thought I should be covered. Since we're talking about £370, I was heartily relieved (& slipped the cycle man £20 for a good round at the pub). The appropriate form arrived yesterday & I spent a careful hour completing it & adding a letter.
Jones, I have ordered another prescription for you & written to Sandra Horne to pass on the info on cycle hire...thanks. Also a friend of Rachel's, Celia Clarkson, phoned to confirm a booking from Oct. 10 - 17 in Casa 2, subject to ticket availability. If the bank has transferred the cash as requested, there ought to be plenty available for the wages bill today. Re the French winter rentals, clever computer has searched his memory & retrieved this paragraph for me: "the (inclusive) price would be 50,000 escudos a month from October to March. The spring season starts in April when the cost would be 55,000, & May would be 60,000."
It was a scorcher yesterday & there's another due today before temps wane slightly over the weekend. Too hot for me in truth...the kind of sticky heat that leaves one limp & disinclined to work. The TV weathermen add sunburn warnings to the ends of forecasts, giving the approximate time after which one is in danger of burning.
Of course, we are bombarded every second with politics, the one subject I have managed so far to avoid. The entry into the Tory leadership contest of former Welsh Secretary, John Redwood, has thoroughly upset calculations. The list for challengers to Major closes today & the 1st round takes place on Tuesday. Eligible are some 327 Tory MPs, described by some, & with good reason, as the world's most treacherous constituency.
The kind of rain-dance being performed by people who are trying to appear loyal to Major while preparing for a 2nd round challenge (especially the two Michaels, Portillo on the right & Heseltine on the left) defies description. Portillo swore undying loyalty to Major in a radio interview this morning but found it "unhelpful" to confirm reports that he was busy setting up his own campaign HQ. Overweening ambition! All is vanity, as the poet wrote, and he was spot on!
My dear folks,
Especially my dear mother who, I hope, returns home today from hospital with the rocky recent past well and truly behind her. Mum, our thoughts have been much with you. Thank you Cathy for your fax for Barbara which I have passed on to her. And thank you Jones for your fax of yesterday. I got home late, yet again, from a complicated afternoon of packaging and subtitling an interview in Japanese with two survivors of the bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
My attention was demanded first by Fats & then the thirsty flowers & then phone messages & correspondence. So this fax has had to wait. Cathy & Jones will be aware that I discovered on Tuesday when I was buying a new bike that I ought to be covered by Barclaycard for the loss of the previous one under their 100 day cover policy. I knew nothing of it. The cycle shop owner brought it to my attention. He couldn't believe that I had not seen the relevant TV commercial showing Rowan Atkinson emerging from a souk in Egypt with a carpet, the end of which had caught fire. I confessed that I had not (as I always turn the sound off during commercials & ignore them.) At his prompting, I phoned Barclaycard who thought I should be covered. Since we're talking about £370, I was heartily relieved (& slipped the cycle man £20 for a good round at the pub). The appropriate form arrived yesterday & I spent a careful hour completing it & adding a letter.
Jones, I have ordered another prescription for you & written to Sandra Horne to pass on the info on cycle hire...thanks. Also a friend of Rachel's, Celia Clarkson, phoned to confirm a booking from Oct. 10 - 17 in Casa 2, subject to ticket availability. If the bank has transferred the cash as requested, there ought to be plenty available for the wages bill today. Re the French winter rentals, clever computer has searched his memory & retrieved this paragraph for me: "the (inclusive) price would be 50,000 escudos a month from October to March. The spring season starts in April when the cost would be 55,000, & May would be 60,000."
It was a scorcher yesterday & there's another due today before temps wane slightly over the weekend. Too hot for me in truth...the kind of sticky heat that leaves one limp & disinclined to work. The TV weathermen add sunburn warnings to the ends of forecasts, giving the approximate time after which one is in danger of burning.
Of course, we are bombarded every second with politics, the one subject I have managed so far to avoid. The entry into the Tory leadership contest of former Welsh Secretary, John Redwood, has thoroughly upset calculations. The list for challengers to Major closes today & the 1st round takes place on Tuesday. Eligible are some 327 Tory MPs, described by some, & with good reason, as the world's most treacherous constituency.
The kind of rain-dance being performed by people who are trying to appear loyal to Major while preparing for a 2nd round challenge (especially the two Michaels, Portillo on the right & Heseltine on the left) defies description. Portillo swore undying loyalty to Major in a radio interview this morning but found it "unhelpful" to confirm reports that he was busy setting up his own campaign HQ. Overweening ambition! All is vanity, as the poet wrote, and he was spot on!
27June1995
London: 27th June 1995
My dear folks,
I went downstairs yesterday morning clad in my cycling gear to set off for work but I found my bicycle gone. Some rascal had kicked in the small door of the understairs storage room where I kept it & nicked it. My neighbours in the basement appeared - to commiserate. They had heard a noise in the early hours but noises in the early hours are commonplace & they had thought little of it. I was very pissed off. However there was nothing I could do other than go to work by other means, so I dumped my helmet & set off on foot.
On Harrow Road I found a bus which took me half way & a second bus completed the journey. I felt somehow that it would have been an admission of defeat to take a taxi. I arrived barely 20 minutes late, in spite of a stop at the bike shop to order another bike. (I considered using buses for the next 3 weeks & obtaining a new bike on my return from Portugal at the end of July. But I am a cyclist, not a buslist, & the new bike can live indoors until a secure door is installed outside.)
Last night, I walked halfway home & took a bus the other half. I stopped off at the police station to report the theft. The elderly police reservist concerned decided that it had been a burglary, not a theft, & that a police visit to the site was necessary. Half an hour later 2 young constables rolled up. They were pleasant & sympathetic & in a mood for conversation. Over cokes in the lounge, we chatted & I learned a great deal about the local gangs of bike thieves & how they operate. I also learned of the low esteem in which the ranks hold some of their superiors & their utter contempt for the Criminal Prosecution Service (known to them as the Criminal Protection Service).
My one glimmer of satisfaction in all this is that there was a really vicious lock securing the back wheel of the bike to the frame at the time of the theft. Who ever stole it did not cycle away. The police said that in their experience the locks were virtually unbreakable, even with pneumatic equipment. But they had heard that professional thieves used gas to freeze the locks & then whacked them with a hammer.
All of the above disrupted my evening. I had meant to phone Mum (who had left home by the time I called this morning) & to fax down the Fig Jam recipe to Jones. All I got done eventually was the feeding of the basement cat (as the neighbours are away) & the ironing. The washing was churning away during our conversation & there were several items that had to be ironed damp so it was then or never.
My dear Jones, Maureen has carefully underlined several sections of the jam book that need to be either copied out or summarised. It needs an hour or two. I shall try to give you a buzz this evening. (I tried a.m., without success.)
The day had meanwhile confirmed reports that John Redwood, a member of the cabinet would mount a first-round challenge to Major for leadership of the party, confounding the PM's assumptions on that score. A whole new ball game, as they say! Swords are out & being plunged into whatever fronts or backs present themselves. The Tory party is rent asunder, whatever the outcome of the election to follow, and it's going to be a fascinating one. No need to tell you that we are up to our ears in politics & likely to stay that way for a week or two. Interesting times!
My dear folks,
I went downstairs yesterday morning clad in my cycling gear to set off for work but I found my bicycle gone. Some rascal had kicked in the small door of the understairs storage room where I kept it & nicked it. My neighbours in the basement appeared - to commiserate. They had heard a noise in the early hours but noises in the early hours are commonplace & they had thought little of it. I was very pissed off. However there was nothing I could do other than go to work by other means, so I dumped my helmet & set off on foot.
On Harrow Road I found a bus which took me half way & a second bus completed the journey. I felt somehow that it would have been an admission of defeat to take a taxi. I arrived barely 20 minutes late, in spite of a stop at the bike shop to order another bike. (I considered using buses for the next 3 weeks & obtaining a new bike on my return from Portugal at the end of July. But I am a cyclist, not a buslist, & the new bike can live indoors until a secure door is installed outside.)
Last night, I walked halfway home & took a bus the other half. I stopped off at the police station to report the theft. The elderly police reservist concerned decided that it had been a burglary, not a theft, & that a police visit to the site was necessary. Half an hour later 2 young constables rolled up. They were pleasant & sympathetic & in a mood for conversation. Over cokes in the lounge, we chatted & I learned a great deal about the local gangs of bike thieves & how they operate. I also learned of the low esteem in which the ranks hold some of their superiors & their utter contempt for the Criminal Prosecution Service (known to them as the Criminal Protection Service).
My one glimmer of satisfaction in all this is that there was a really vicious lock securing the back wheel of the bike to the frame at the time of the theft. Who ever stole it did not cycle away. The police said that in their experience the locks were virtually unbreakable, even with pneumatic equipment. But they had heard that professional thieves used gas to freeze the locks & then whacked them with a hammer.
All of the above disrupted my evening. I had meant to phone Mum (who had left home by the time I called this morning) & to fax down the Fig Jam recipe to Jones. All I got done eventually was the feeding of the basement cat (as the neighbours are away) & the ironing. The washing was churning away during our conversation & there were several items that had to be ironed damp so it was then or never.
My dear Jones, Maureen has carefully underlined several sections of the jam book that need to be either copied out or summarised. It needs an hour or two. I shall try to give you a buzz this evening. (I tried a.m., without success.)
The day had meanwhile confirmed reports that John Redwood, a member of the cabinet would mount a first-round challenge to Major for leadership of the party, confounding the PM's assumptions on that score. A whole new ball game, as they say! Swords are out & being plunged into whatever fronts or backs present themselves. The Tory party is rent asunder, whatever the outcome of the election to follow, and it's going to be a fascinating one. No need to tell you that we are up to our ears in politics & likely to stay that way for a week or two. Interesting times!
26June1005
London: 26th June 1995
My dear folks,
I am wearing one of my new shirts & very smart it is too. It will give me a great deal of pleasure in the months & (God willing) years ahead, along with its still virgin companions. Joan Baez croons as I write. The new speaker case (a small box which sits under the monitor screen) has one of its three speakers facing down so that the sound reflects up from the desk. It seems to come from all around one, an audio sensurround sensation. Dad would have approved. I never knew anyone who tried so long & so hard to achieve perfect sound. You can certainly get better than I've got but only for a lot more money & I'm satisfied (for the moment at least).
But I'm rabbiting on! I had a fax from Chris (Jones in Guyana) overnight. His junior QS was killed in an accident on the site yesterday & Chris is in shock. (Barbara, his fax no. is 00 59 225 3362; he'd appreciate a note, I'm sure.) I send him the family letters for which he is so earnestly grateful that it's embarrassing. He clearly feels the strain of isolation in an exacting environment. A recent spell of illness has meant that he is not allowed to take alcohol either & he is coping with the added strain of living a beerless life - really tough in that heat.
Cathy, thank you for your fax this morning. My lordy but I can see why you won all the essay prizes at school. I guess you got the essay gene. My sympathies to your elder daughter as puberty impinges on her life. I recall (some years ago now) Dr Merlin of speaking of his daughter finding herself with "two bee-stings" & not knowing what to do with them. It's harder for girls, I think. Such big changes! And as for the old acne, what a bugger. I developed a large pimple - we used to call them chorbs - on my forehead days before the school dance (to which I was taking my cousin, Carohn) & nearly perished in my agonised attempts to blot it out by means fair or foul.
And my dear Jones, thank you for your faxes too. I have twice tried to call you in the evenings in Seventh Heaven, without success, merely for a word. I got home late again last night, too late to sit down & start composing a fax given the habits of our guests in Casa 3. (I was doing a story for the bulletin editor who was working with an inexperienced team & found it hard going). It was the loveliest of evenings, absolutely perfect; neither hot nor cold, just a breath of wind. I went out on to the patio to read Mum's fax over a can of beer. (How did we ever manage pre-fax?) The creepers were put out new shoots & the patio flowers were suddenly exploding into new growth. About time too! Mid-summer's come & gone & we're only now seeing the sun.
Jones, I shall sit down this evening & get the essence of the jam recipe on a fax to you. By all means, let me know what items might be useful for the braai. I shall reserve my position as I intend to travel as light as poss. Pause there to see Maureen off. She's catching a train down to Bill & Lynne before returning to France & later RSA. We've got along well enough, I'm pleased to say. I can't pretend to share any of her interests (other than the rugby - how frustrating Cath to have the cassette run out at the crucial moment!) but that was hardly an issue. She took great pleasure in an article in The Independent rubbishing The Cow, the restaurant we visited & about which she subsequently had severe doubts. Certainly, the article - clever, witty & probably accurate - got in some telling blows. Poor Cow!
My dear folks,
I am wearing one of my new shirts & very smart it is too. It will give me a great deal of pleasure in the months & (God willing) years ahead, along with its still virgin companions. Joan Baez croons as I write. The new speaker case (a small box which sits under the monitor screen) has one of its three speakers facing down so that the sound reflects up from the desk. It seems to come from all around one, an audio sensurround sensation. Dad would have approved. I never knew anyone who tried so long & so hard to achieve perfect sound. You can certainly get better than I've got but only for a lot more money & I'm satisfied (for the moment at least).
But I'm rabbiting on! I had a fax from Chris (Jones in Guyana) overnight. His junior QS was killed in an accident on the site yesterday & Chris is in shock. (Barbara, his fax no. is 00 59 225 3362; he'd appreciate a note, I'm sure.) I send him the family letters for which he is so earnestly grateful that it's embarrassing. He clearly feels the strain of isolation in an exacting environment. A recent spell of illness has meant that he is not allowed to take alcohol either & he is coping with the added strain of living a beerless life - really tough in that heat.
Cathy, thank you for your fax this morning. My lordy but I can see why you won all the essay prizes at school. I guess you got the essay gene. My sympathies to your elder daughter as puberty impinges on her life. I recall (some years ago now) Dr Merlin of speaking of his daughter finding herself with "two bee-stings" & not knowing what to do with them. It's harder for girls, I think. Such big changes! And as for the old acne, what a bugger. I developed a large pimple - we used to call them chorbs - on my forehead days before the school dance (to which I was taking my cousin, Carohn) & nearly perished in my agonised attempts to blot it out by means fair or foul.
And my dear Jones, thank you for your faxes too. I have twice tried to call you in the evenings in Seventh Heaven, without success, merely for a word. I got home late again last night, too late to sit down & start composing a fax given the habits of our guests in Casa 3. (I was doing a story for the bulletin editor who was working with an inexperienced team & found it hard going). It was the loveliest of evenings, absolutely perfect; neither hot nor cold, just a breath of wind. I went out on to the patio to read Mum's fax over a can of beer. (How did we ever manage pre-fax?) The creepers were put out new shoots & the patio flowers were suddenly exploding into new growth. About time too! Mid-summer's come & gone & we're only now seeing the sun.
Jones, I shall sit down this evening & get the essence of the jam recipe on a fax to you. By all means, let me know what items might be useful for the braai. I shall reserve my position as I intend to travel as light as poss. Pause there to see Maureen off. She's catching a train down to Bill & Lynne before returning to France & later RSA. We've got along well enough, I'm pleased to say. I can't pretend to share any of her interests (other than the rugby - how frustrating Cath to have the cassette run out at the crucial moment!) but that was hardly an issue. She took great pleasure in an article in The Independent rubbishing The Cow, the restaurant we visited & about which she subsequently had severe doubts. Certainly, the article - clever, witty & probably accurate - got in some telling blows. Poor Cow!
23June1995
London: 23rd June 1995
My dear folks,
There's been a little local excitement, as you know. Major pulled a fast one. Either he's not as stupid as generally thought or he has a clever friend. Although we'd had hints of something in the air (it ain't every day that camera teams are summoned to Downing Street) it hit the newsroom like a bombshell at 17.00 (Thursday). The effect of such an announcement is a bit like sticking a blade of grass down an ants' nest. There's a frantic scurrying around of people in all directions, a hurly-burly helter-skeltering of bodies to phones, faxes & editing machines; a desperate summoning of tapes from the picture library; a yelling of vital messages across the newsroom. Frustrations abound & four-letter words rend the air. It's like a war-zone. Makes me think of the stock exchange where such scenes are endemic.
I was grateful, as so often, to be doing my own thing, being immersed in a tricky Kashmir package at the time. But I was turfed out of my editing suite to make way for the heavies. The end result was that I got home rather late. Maureen cooked us a super supper & the pair of us watched a series of news bulletins & analyses as we tried to absorb the possibilities & implications. The last time I can remember such a cosmic outburst was the day Thatcher resigned. I shall never forget it. In fact, I have the telex cuttings framed on my wall. At the time, the BBC news chiefs were all in a meeting of the uninterruptible kind. So when I marched in on them with nary a bow or scrape, there was instant silence. I marched up to the boss's desk & presented him with my scrap of paper. "Maggie's resigned," he said, "get to it." They all rushed out as if their houses were burning down. It was my big moment.
12.00 ! Hurd is stepping down at Foreign Secretary. We live in interesting times.
1900. Thank you Mama for the faxed articles on St David's College and the radio service. I read them with interest. Fatty's fed, Maureen's cooking supper & I'm sipping a beer. I cycled into town after lunch with a shopping list. I locked the bike to a pole outside M&S & began a leisurely exploration of the mens’ wear depts of M&S, Selfridges, Debenhams & D.H.Evans. I needed shirts. My supply is wearing thin. Two hours later, I had secured 4, all of which I like a lot. It sure took a lot of searching to find what I wanted. The ones with the right colours lacked either collars or sleeves or cost megabucks. Mother to came to mind. How often she would return home after a shopping expedition to announce that she'd walked miles but found nothing suitable. These statements astounded me, especially in my youth, given the evidence of my eyes, department stores spilling over with ladies' clothing.
Anyhow, I proceeded to Tottenham Court Road where I looked for better speakers for my computer. The ones which came supplied with it are tinny & collapse in a resonating hiss under any deep base sounds. A little exploration brought me to a shop selling what I wanted but it took all of half an hour to hook them up to two of the demonstration computers for me to hear them for myself. I wanted to be sure that I was getting value for money. There are three, packaged in a single low case which sits under the computer monitor. Beethoven's piano concertos tinkle out as I write. The sound quality is greatly improved and a real joy.
Lastly I took myself to Dillons book store, close by, to look for three books for Cathy. Cath, let me tell you that the fax number you gave me for the book company in Cornwall failed to respond. Neither could I trace any other fax or phone number for the outfit concerned. But Dillons had two of the three you sought (and mentioned that the fourth one still only to be found in hard-back would also be published in soft-back soon). I shall post them over shortly. You will gather that the back is very much improved. I really put some effort in the pedals, rejoicing in the peculiar freedom that the cyclist enjoys.
Maureen also went to town where she bought a rail ticket to enable her to join friends in the country soon & lunched with a friend. She also bought Jones a book on making jam (this in response to your fig jam query Jones) although the book has very little to say about figs other than that a single variety makes good jam and requires both pectin & acid in the making.
My dear folks,
There's been a little local excitement, as you know. Major pulled a fast one. Either he's not as stupid as generally thought or he has a clever friend. Although we'd had hints of something in the air (it ain't every day that camera teams are summoned to Downing Street) it hit the newsroom like a bombshell at 17.00 (Thursday). The effect of such an announcement is a bit like sticking a blade of grass down an ants' nest. There's a frantic scurrying around of people in all directions, a hurly-burly helter-skeltering of bodies to phones, faxes & editing machines; a desperate summoning of tapes from the picture library; a yelling of vital messages across the newsroom. Frustrations abound & four-letter words rend the air. It's like a war-zone. Makes me think of the stock exchange where such scenes are endemic.
I was grateful, as so often, to be doing my own thing, being immersed in a tricky Kashmir package at the time. But I was turfed out of my editing suite to make way for the heavies. The end result was that I got home rather late. Maureen cooked us a super supper & the pair of us watched a series of news bulletins & analyses as we tried to absorb the possibilities & implications. The last time I can remember such a cosmic outburst was the day Thatcher resigned. I shall never forget it. In fact, I have the telex cuttings framed on my wall. At the time, the BBC news chiefs were all in a meeting of the uninterruptible kind. So when I marched in on them with nary a bow or scrape, there was instant silence. I marched up to the boss's desk & presented him with my scrap of paper. "Maggie's resigned," he said, "get to it." They all rushed out as if their houses were burning down. It was my big moment.
12.00 ! Hurd is stepping down at Foreign Secretary. We live in interesting times.
1900. Thank you Mama for the faxed articles on St David's College and the radio service. I read them with interest. Fatty's fed, Maureen's cooking supper & I'm sipping a beer. I cycled into town after lunch with a shopping list. I locked the bike to a pole outside M&S & began a leisurely exploration of the mens’ wear depts of M&S, Selfridges, Debenhams & D.H.Evans. I needed shirts. My supply is wearing thin. Two hours later, I had secured 4, all of which I like a lot. It sure took a lot of searching to find what I wanted. The ones with the right colours lacked either collars or sleeves or cost megabucks. Mother to came to mind. How often she would return home after a shopping expedition to announce that she'd walked miles but found nothing suitable. These statements astounded me, especially in my youth, given the evidence of my eyes, department stores spilling over with ladies' clothing.
Anyhow, I proceeded to Tottenham Court Road where I looked for better speakers for my computer. The ones which came supplied with it are tinny & collapse in a resonating hiss under any deep base sounds. A little exploration brought me to a shop selling what I wanted but it took all of half an hour to hook them up to two of the demonstration computers for me to hear them for myself. I wanted to be sure that I was getting value for money. There are three, packaged in a single low case which sits under the computer monitor. Beethoven's piano concertos tinkle out as I write. The sound quality is greatly improved and a real joy.
Lastly I took myself to Dillons book store, close by, to look for three books for Cathy. Cath, let me tell you that the fax number you gave me for the book company in Cornwall failed to respond. Neither could I trace any other fax or phone number for the outfit concerned. But Dillons had two of the three you sought (and mentioned that the fourth one still only to be found in hard-back would also be published in soft-back soon). I shall post them over shortly. You will gather that the back is very much improved. I really put some effort in the pedals, rejoicing in the peculiar freedom that the cyclist enjoys.
Maureen also went to town where she bought a rail ticket to enable her to join friends in the country soon & lunched with a friend. She also bought Jones a book on making jam (this in response to your fig jam query Jones) although the book has very little to say about figs other than that a single variety makes good jam and requires both pectin & acid in the making.
21June1995
London: 21st June 1995
My dear folks,
Another lovely evening! And on mid-summer's day too. A couple of druids managed to get down to Stonehenge to celebrate the occasion. There were TV pix showing them robed to the hilt, having muttered the essential incantations to placate the sun or whatever. Mind you, I don't mean to poke fun at them. Nobody's religion makes much sense to anybody else and after the conspiracies of Aum Shinri Kyo, what's a couple of druids between friends, especially if they can persuade the sun to rise again tomorrow? Just imagine if the authorities banned the ceremony & the sun stayed put. What a fuss there would be then!
I spent several hours putting together a fancy report on a competition for models in China. It may sound crazy but I have to tell you that a classy Chinese model is just as classy as anything you'll find in Paris or New York. The days of baggy overalls have gone. It took a long time to package the report because there were lots of short bursts of music behind the shots & these required painstaking marrying to each other & to the track I was interspersing. I managed to find myself a female picture editor with a keen interest in modelling who did a fine job. Another package I was trying to organise fell through & I left my successor with rather less (material) than I like to. I normally spoil him silly so it won't hurt him to graft for once.
I have chatted to Bren & to Mum & received a fax from Jones. Thank you. I'm glad the cassettes arrived safely Cath & look forward to viewing them during our next trip. We still harbour ideas of an October visit. Mave is fed and Maureen is out to dinner. I spent two hours last night trying to stick the 8 metre flexible drain clearer down the wretched shower drain which I had been unable to block by other means. It meant crawling into dim corners and, having wrestled the pipe joints off, wriggling & wiggling & poking the apparatus into smelly, leaking pipeholes. I didn't seem to encounter the blockage at any point but after sticking the pipes together again, I flushed some hot water down the shower and it seemed to work again as good as new. I was thrilled (with just a hint of doubt that I might have poked a hole in the pipe into which the water was vanishing). Maureen left a note saying that she had showered & that I was hired.
I bumped into a downstairs neighbour when I arrived home (Elaine) to hear that she was marrying her long-standing boyfriend, Harry, a pleasant Greek businessman whom I've encountered from time to time. I was pleased that they were pleased and said so. I confess I tend to think more of who's partnering whom these days than who's gone through the formalities. Our grandfathers and great grandfathers would have been horrified. But times change. An Anglican bishop has got himself into hot water with some of his flock for suggesting that it's possible for couples to be married (and thus living holy lives) in senses other than being formally wed. Poor old church! With half the flock gay, half the flock living in what used to be known as sin and the other half disgusted with both the previous halves, life ain't simple.
Let me get this off before the witching hour. Then I shall go outside and water the patio and whisper sweet-nothings to Mavis.
My dear folks,
Another lovely evening! And on mid-summer's day too. A couple of druids managed to get down to Stonehenge to celebrate the occasion. There were TV pix showing them robed to the hilt, having muttered the essential incantations to placate the sun or whatever. Mind you, I don't mean to poke fun at them. Nobody's religion makes much sense to anybody else and after the conspiracies of Aum Shinri Kyo, what's a couple of druids between friends, especially if they can persuade the sun to rise again tomorrow? Just imagine if the authorities banned the ceremony & the sun stayed put. What a fuss there would be then!
I spent several hours putting together a fancy report on a competition for models in China. It may sound crazy but I have to tell you that a classy Chinese model is just as classy as anything you'll find in Paris or New York. The days of baggy overalls have gone. It took a long time to package the report because there were lots of short bursts of music behind the shots & these required painstaking marrying to each other & to the track I was interspersing. I managed to find myself a female picture editor with a keen interest in modelling who did a fine job. Another package I was trying to organise fell through & I left my successor with rather less (material) than I like to. I normally spoil him silly so it won't hurt him to graft for once.
I have chatted to Bren & to Mum & received a fax from Jones. Thank you. I'm glad the cassettes arrived safely Cath & look forward to viewing them during our next trip. We still harbour ideas of an October visit. Mave is fed and Maureen is out to dinner. I spent two hours last night trying to stick the 8 metre flexible drain clearer down the wretched shower drain which I had been unable to block by other means. It meant crawling into dim corners and, having wrestled the pipe joints off, wriggling & wiggling & poking the apparatus into smelly, leaking pipeholes. I didn't seem to encounter the blockage at any point but after sticking the pipes together again, I flushed some hot water down the shower and it seemed to work again as good as new. I was thrilled (with just a hint of doubt that I might have poked a hole in the pipe into which the water was vanishing). Maureen left a note saying that she had showered & that I was hired.
I bumped into a downstairs neighbour when I arrived home (Elaine) to hear that she was marrying her long-standing boyfriend, Harry, a pleasant Greek businessman whom I've encountered from time to time. I was pleased that they were pleased and said so. I confess I tend to think more of who's partnering whom these days than who's gone through the formalities. Our grandfathers and great grandfathers would have been horrified. But times change. An Anglican bishop has got himself into hot water with some of his flock for suggesting that it's possible for couples to be married (and thus living holy lives) in senses other than being formally wed. Poor old church! With half the flock gay, half the flock living in what used to be known as sin and the other half disgusted with both the previous halves, life ain't simple.
Let me get this off before the witching hour. Then I shall go outside and water the patio and whisper sweet-nothings to Mavis.
20June1995
London: 20th June 1995
My dear folks,
It's the loveliest Tuesday evening. Saving that a bus driver tried to send me to the great newsroom in the sky on my way home, it's been a pleasant day. Ironically, the gentleman concerned drove the BBC shuttle that runs between the half dozen establishments in the area. He stopped at one of them and so did I, to give him a brief but firm lecture on desirable driving habits & necessary consideration for cyclists. I may have laboured the point but I stayed on the right side of politeness. No 4-letter words! Nevertheless, I intend to take the matter further with his boss on the morrow. I was distinctly pissed off (if totally unharmed).
However, as I say, it's a lovely evening. Mave was waiting in the hall & followed me upstairs where he promptly plopped his 7-kgs down on my foot for his evening scratch & cuddle. These are important to his state of mind. Thereafter I fed him & he has now settled himself down somewhere for a meditative half hour. Maureen is out. I think she has gone to dinner with a friend. She cooked me an excellent supper last night and accompanied it with a bottle of Marielle's wine. I hardly know which I enjoyed more.
It's been an interesting day. You may have seen something of the civil wedding in London (following their Islamic wedding in Paris) of Imran Khan and Jemima (half-Jewish & converted to Islam) Goldsmith, now known as Haiqa Khan. Daddy, Sir James (Jimmy) Goldsmith, is one of the richest men around & there's much puzzling over why the newly virtuous Imran (who bedded half the social set of Britain in his wilder days) chose Jemima. Did he think he was marrying the keys to the bank, we wonder. Certainly, the lass, at 21 half his age, looked utterly gorgeous. How she will take to life in Lahore (& for how long) we wait to see. These events have occupied a considerable part of my programme's time these past few nights. They're half the news in Britain & all the news in Pakistan.
The other half was the scrapping by the Shell Oil Company at the 11th hour of its plans to sink an oil platform (full or not-full of toxic waste, depending on whom you choose to believe) in the North Sea after days of protests which ran to fire-bombings of their petrol stations in Germany. The company, seeing sales slipping savagely, recanted at 17.58 this evening. I cannot tell you what problems this caused for news bulletins going to air with the story at 18.00. Shell's chairman has since been on the air to explain why the company's position had become untenable. As a conclusion to a drama, it was of five-star quality. The knife through the ribs came this morning when a confidential Shell report (2 years old) was leaked to the media, saying the platform was poisonous & should not be dumped at sea. Fascinating stuff.
Thank you Jones and Cathy for your faxes. Cathy I shall follow up your book interests and report back soonest. (The car vouchers ought to arrive ten days to a week before your departure.) Jones, I rejoice in the good news, of the rapid growth of their house, from Olive & John. Do thank him for fixing the loo. Hope the celebration lunch is just the greatest. And as for Simone's engagement, what can I say? Conal will be devastated. I feel quite moved myself. I do hope that the lad concerned is as nice as you paint him. That really is the news of the week! You must give me an idea of when the great day is planned. (I suppose it's an end of my Portuguese lessons.)
Right, it's gone 20.00. We're into cheap time. Let me get this off.
My dear folks,
It's the loveliest Tuesday evening. Saving that a bus driver tried to send me to the great newsroom in the sky on my way home, it's been a pleasant day. Ironically, the gentleman concerned drove the BBC shuttle that runs between the half dozen establishments in the area. He stopped at one of them and so did I, to give him a brief but firm lecture on desirable driving habits & necessary consideration for cyclists. I may have laboured the point but I stayed on the right side of politeness. No 4-letter words! Nevertheless, I intend to take the matter further with his boss on the morrow. I was distinctly pissed off (if totally unharmed).
However, as I say, it's a lovely evening. Mave was waiting in the hall & followed me upstairs where he promptly plopped his 7-kgs down on my foot for his evening scratch & cuddle. These are important to his state of mind. Thereafter I fed him & he has now settled himself down somewhere for a meditative half hour. Maureen is out. I think she has gone to dinner with a friend. She cooked me an excellent supper last night and accompanied it with a bottle of Marielle's wine. I hardly know which I enjoyed more.
It's been an interesting day. You may have seen something of the civil wedding in London (following their Islamic wedding in Paris) of Imran Khan and Jemima (half-Jewish & converted to Islam) Goldsmith, now known as Haiqa Khan. Daddy, Sir James (Jimmy) Goldsmith, is one of the richest men around & there's much puzzling over why the newly virtuous Imran (who bedded half the social set of Britain in his wilder days) chose Jemima. Did he think he was marrying the keys to the bank, we wonder. Certainly, the lass, at 21 half his age, looked utterly gorgeous. How she will take to life in Lahore (& for how long) we wait to see. These events have occupied a considerable part of my programme's time these past few nights. They're half the news in Britain & all the news in Pakistan.
The other half was the scrapping by the Shell Oil Company at the 11th hour of its plans to sink an oil platform (full or not-full of toxic waste, depending on whom you choose to believe) in the North Sea after days of protests which ran to fire-bombings of their petrol stations in Germany. The company, seeing sales slipping savagely, recanted at 17.58 this evening. I cannot tell you what problems this caused for news bulletins going to air with the story at 18.00. Shell's chairman has since been on the air to explain why the company's position had become untenable. As a conclusion to a drama, it was of five-star quality. The knife through the ribs came this morning when a confidential Shell report (2 years old) was leaked to the media, saying the platform was poisonous & should not be dumped at sea. Fascinating stuff.
Thank you Jones and Cathy for your faxes. Cathy I shall follow up your book interests and report back soonest. (The car vouchers ought to arrive ten days to a week before your departure.) Jones, I rejoice in the good news, of the rapid growth of their house, from Olive & John. Do thank him for fixing the loo. Hope the celebration lunch is just the greatest. And as for Simone's engagement, what can I say? Conal will be devastated. I feel quite moved myself. I do hope that the lad concerned is as nice as you paint him. That really is the news of the week! You must give me an idea of when the great day is planned. (I suppose it's an end of my Portuguese lessons.)
Right, it's gone 20.00. We're into cheap time. Let me get this off.
18June1995
London: 18th June 1995
My dear folks,
The place is silent for the moment, excepting the hum of the computer & the twittering of birds out in the gardens. How pleasant! The wailing sirens that woke me up have bansheed themselves out of earshot. It's just gone 10.00. I put on the radio to get the news but got an earful of some preacher instead and put it off again. Wasn't in the mood to be preached to. Probably, the news is much the same anyway as that at 04.00 when I woke to take Jones to the airport and 07.00 when I lay down to resume my interrupted slumbers.
Last night, I twice read Cathy's four page missive on her ferocious schedule these past few days. No wonder she's setting precedents by falling asleep in the afternoon (although the practice has much to commend it). Hell! Cathy, my own litany is pitiful by comparison. I have no such battle honours to report, no stirring deeds to recount. Nevertheless, we did have quite a pleasant weekend. And since that's all that I really have to tell you about, you must forgive me if it goes under the magnifying glass.
It started on Thursday evening, as usual. Marielle had by then taken herself back to Bordeaux. Maureen remains a while. I hear the floor creaking over my head as she constructs herself upstairs. Inevitably, their visit concentrated on matters artistic & gastronomic. I joined them once, for dinner at the Seashell, the fish restaurant which will be familiar to most of you. Thereafter, Jones did the honours while I pursued my Asian news.
On Friday evening, we made a fivesome, with Penny & Richard, at a restaurant highly recommended. The four of them took a taxi. I took my bike, as the taxi took only four & the venue was fairly close by. The restaurant is called The Cow. It occupies the floors above a very ordinary pub but was apparently designed by Terence Conran (who is famous for these things) & does special food & charges special prices. The French accents of our host & our waiter were the genuine thing for they exchanged a stream of French repartee with Maureen during the course of the meal. In truth, it was a good meal. I enjoyed it, the wines, the company & the occasion.
But in my heart of hearts I fear I am a peasant. It seems foolish to me to pay substantial sums for slightly special food when I can pay modest amounts for dishes that are nearly as good, even if Mr Sainsbury supplies them frozen & I have to microwave them first. (And restaurant wine prices are legitimised highway robbery.) I can sense the more delicate of my readers cringing at such heresy. Not that I regret the occasion. I do not, in the least. But I have reconciled myself to the truth that I shall never be a gourmet. As I have told Jones, who constantly endeavours to overfeed me (& underfeed herself) the way to my heart ain't through my stomach.
The one place the pair of us agree is excellent value for money is Waterperry, the restaurant & gardens an hour away up the M40. It was there we repaired on Friday morning to have a day & conversation to ourselves. It was, moreover, due to be the first (& last) sunny day of the week. The sun broke through as we arrived & we sat ourselves down in the gardens for lunch. I had bought a brown roll (in spite of Jones' admonitions) to feed the birds that hop around, one of the pleasures of Waterperry.
There's gangs of sparrows, a few blackbirds & starlings, & audacious chaffinches which come and search for crumbs between one's feet. No pigeons, fortunately. The scones & apple crumble proved as good as ever. Afterwards, we took our favourite walk across the fields & the stream & through the local village, one of the prettiest I know. There's one house (The Old Post Office) where we always stop & peer over the fence at the immaculate garden beyond. It's a triumph of the imagination.
We returned to an unwelcome phone message from the BBC saying that I should be on standby for a "Bosnia special" transmission on Saturday. I prepared Jones to answer any phone calls with the news that her husband was resting his injured back & in no shape to take on extra duties (an exaggeration possibly but certainly not a lie). Fortunately, the phone call never came.
Jones & Maureen took themselves down to the Church Street market for a while, returning for THE rugby match, due to start at 13.30. You will all surely know by now that the heavens opened over Kings Park on Saturday & the game (swimmers only) started 2 hours late (in the shallow end). The Boks were damned lucky to win, even though they dominated the first half with disciplined play. The French recovered in the second half. Twice I thought the visitors had it in the dying moments. Maureen, who was rooting for them, thought them hard done by. Perhaps they were. But that's the way the cookie crumbles.
20:03
Evening! A lovely sunny one. I must complete this and get it off to my soon-to-sleep recipients before taking myself for a walk. I had a long day at work. I confess that the extra hour I had to stay to complete things was largely due to the 90 minutes I took off to watch the All Blacks massacre the English. I know the English came back at the end to save their honour & all praise be to them for the valiance. There was simply no toppling that two-ton giant secret weapon the All Blacks station on the wing. I've a horrible idea - however unpatriotic - that the Boks are going to face the same problem next week, with much the same outcome. In my heart, I see a glorious victory to the Boks; but if I were a betting man, my money would reside with the gents from New Zealand. They sure are going to take some beating.
I had a call from Jones. Her plane left two hours late and she didn't much enjoy the trip. She's been spoiled by too many flights with TAP and BA, albeit in economy class. So the shock of riding down with squalling kids and grumpy grannies in the flying equivalent of an Alexandra taxi was not a pleasant one. Still, she survived it. And our tenants were at the airport to meet her, which was kind of them and nice for her.
She's moved into Seventh Heaven for a fortnight while The Boys complete the interior of MCP. They've done virtually nothing this past fortnight as half of them, John, has been visiting Britain to collect a new van. He took down several folding chairs for Jones which he off-loaded at the Quinta this afternoon. Jones says all is well but very dry. Maria failed to water several new plants which look devastated as a result. Jones is not pleased. What can one do?
An interruption there to feed Mavis whose loud meows served to remind me that he had not been fed - as if one could ever forget. It's politic not to ignore them for after three or four, he takes a swipe at the nearest leg to reinforce them. Not a patient cat, Mr Mavis. He likes first place in the queue. The only patience he's displayed all week was in sitting below the kitchen window and eyeing (malevolently) the stream of birds who have been demolishing the nuts hanging outside. I've replenished the holder twice this week. They're at it from 4 in the morning till 9 at night. The blue tits don't bother to peck at the nuts through the wire. They simply hop in the top, scramble down and grab a whole nut. The sparrows, on the other hand, either don't feed at all or arrive in droves and squabble like hell over whose turn's next. I have watched their antics with great pleasure. As I said, it's been a quiet week!
My dear folks,
The place is silent for the moment, excepting the hum of the computer & the twittering of birds out in the gardens. How pleasant! The wailing sirens that woke me up have bansheed themselves out of earshot. It's just gone 10.00. I put on the radio to get the news but got an earful of some preacher instead and put it off again. Wasn't in the mood to be preached to. Probably, the news is much the same anyway as that at 04.00 when I woke to take Jones to the airport and 07.00 when I lay down to resume my interrupted slumbers.
Last night, I twice read Cathy's four page missive on her ferocious schedule these past few days. No wonder she's setting precedents by falling asleep in the afternoon (although the practice has much to commend it). Hell! Cathy, my own litany is pitiful by comparison. I have no such battle honours to report, no stirring deeds to recount. Nevertheless, we did have quite a pleasant weekend. And since that's all that I really have to tell you about, you must forgive me if it goes under the magnifying glass.
It started on Thursday evening, as usual. Marielle had by then taken herself back to Bordeaux. Maureen remains a while. I hear the floor creaking over my head as she constructs herself upstairs. Inevitably, their visit concentrated on matters artistic & gastronomic. I joined them once, for dinner at the Seashell, the fish restaurant which will be familiar to most of you. Thereafter, Jones did the honours while I pursued my Asian news.
On Friday evening, we made a fivesome, with Penny & Richard, at a restaurant highly recommended. The four of them took a taxi. I took my bike, as the taxi took only four & the venue was fairly close by. The restaurant is called The Cow. It occupies the floors above a very ordinary pub but was apparently designed by Terence Conran (who is famous for these things) & does special food & charges special prices. The French accents of our host & our waiter were the genuine thing for they exchanged a stream of French repartee with Maureen during the course of the meal. In truth, it was a good meal. I enjoyed it, the wines, the company & the occasion.
But in my heart of hearts I fear I am a peasant. It seems foolish to me to pay substantial sums for slightly special food when I can pay modest amounts for dishes that are nearly as good, even if Mr Sainsbury supplies them frozen & I have to microwave them first. (And restaurant wine prices are legitimised highway robbery.) I can sense the more delicate of my readers cringing at such heresy. Not that I regret the occasion. I do not, in the least. But I have reconciled myself to the truth that I shall never be a gourmet. As I have told Jones, who constantly endeavours to overfeed me (& underfeed herself) the way to my heart ain't through my stomach.
The one place the pair of us agree is excellent value for money is Waterperry, the restaurant & gardens an hour away up the M40. It was there we repaired on Friday morning to have a day & conversation to ourselves. It was, moreover, due to be the first (& last) sunny day of the week. The sun broke through as we arrived & we sat ourselves down in the gardens for lunch. I had bought a brown roll (in spite of Jones' admonitions) to feed the birds that hop around, one of the pleasures of Waterperry.
There's gangs of sparrows, a few blackbirds & starlings, & audacious chaffinches which come and search for crumbs between one's feet. No pigeons, fortunately. The scones & apple crumble proved as good as ever. Afterwards, we took our favourite walk across the fields & the stream & through the local village, one of the prettiest I know. There's one house (The Old Post Office) where we always stop & peer over the fence at the immaculate garden beyond. It's a triumph of the imagination.
We returned to an unwelcome phone message from the BBC saying that I should be on standby for a "Bosnia special" transmission on Saturday. I prepared Jones to answer any phone calls with the news that her husband was resting his injured back & in no shape to take on extra duties (an exaggeration possibly but certainly not a lie). Fortunately, the phone call never came.
Jones & Maureen took themselves down to the Church Street market for a while, returning for THE rugby match, due to start at 13.30. You will all surely know by now that the heavens opened over Kings Park on Saturday & the game (swimmers only) started 2 hours late (in the shallow end). The Boks were damned lucky to win, even though they dominated the first half with disciplined play. The French recovered in the second half. Twice I thought the visitors had it in the dying moments. Maureen, who was rooting for them, thought them hard done by. Perhaps they were. But that's the way the cookie crumbles.
20:03
Evening! A lovely sunny one. I must complete this and get it off to my soon-to-sleep recipients before taking myself for a walk. I had a long day at work. I confess that the extra hour I had to stay to complete things was largely due to the 90 minutes I took off to watch the All Blacks massacre the English. I know the English came back at the end to save their honour & all praise be to them for the valiance. There was simply no toppling that two-ton giant secret weapon the All Blacks station on the wing. I've a horrible idea - however unpatriotic - that the Boks are going to face the same problem next week, with much the same outcome. In my heart, I see a glorious victory to the Boks; but if I were a betting man, my money would reside with the gents from New Zealand. They sure are going to take some beating.
I had a call from Jones. Her plane left two hours late and she didn't much enjoy the trip. She's been spoiled by too many flights with TAP and BA, albeit in economy class. So the shock of riding down with squalling kids and grumpy grannies in the flying equivalent of an Alexandra taxi was not a pleasant one. Still, she survived it. And our tenants were at the airport to meet her, which was kind of them and nice for her.
She's moved into Seventh Heaven for a fortnight while The Boys complete the interior of MCP. They've done virtually nothing this past fortnight as half of them, John, has been visiting Britain to collect a new van. He took down several folding chairs for Jones which he off-loaded at the Quinta this afternoon. Jones says all is well but very dry. Maria failed to water several new plants which look devastated as a result. Jones is not pleased. What can one do?
An interruption there to feed Mavis whose loud meows served to remind me that he had not been fed - as if one could ever forget. It's politic not to ignore them for after three or four, he takes a swipe at the nearest leg to reinforce them. Not a patient cat, Mr Mavis. He likes first place in the queue. The only patience he's displayed all week was in sitting below the kitchen window and eyeing (malevolently) the stream of birds who have been demolishing the nuts hanging outside. I've replenished the holder twice this week. They're at it from 4 in the morning till 9 at night. The blue tits don't bother to peck at the nuts through the wire. They simply hop in the top, scramble down and grab a whole nut. The sparrows, on the other hand, either don't feed at all or arrive in droves and squabble like hell over whose turn's next. I have watched their antics with great pleasure. As I said, it's been a quiet week!
13June1995
London: 13th June 1995
My dear folks,
It's Tuesday evening. Another grey one. It's been quite cold - if I say so myself. When the little blue tags (for minus temps) appear on the electronic weather map within spitting distance of mid-summer's day, one blinks. And one is blinking right now. There's been a stream of cold air from the north Atlantic. I'm not complaining, mind you. I rather like it. Chills the knuckles on the bike, but helps me to sleep like a dream. It's easy enough to warm our little nest, all but impossible to cool it.
Jones held a ladies' luncheon today to celebrate the visit of Maureen and Marielle. Half a dozen acquaintances rolled up with tributes of flowers and other goodies. I gathered from her that it went okay. Jones had time only for a few words on my return from work before rushing out - against her inclinations - for dinner with her guests. It’s Marielle's last night (I think). Maureen will be staying on a while (if she's good). Jones returns to Portugal on Sunday morning and I follow her four weeks later.
Thank you for your fax, Kevin, hard on the heels of Ann's. Do I get the impression that it's bad policy to ask the mildest of questions about reported kart speeds? Well, don't get us wrong for a moment. We highly-trained journalists automatically check our facts (when it suits us. The rest of the time we just make it up, as you know). That's all there was to it. (And we can't be blamed if our recollection of karts is putt-putting around a green-mamba exercise circuit in topless golf cart with a private bar on board.) Our compliments to our nephew were sincere enough. He had clearly driven the race of his life.
Jones, like Kevin, has found her life running out of control since she stopped working for a firm and started working for herself. She has never been so busy, either. I confess I wonder whether destiny has a nasty sense of humour. The London visit has inevitably been largely taken up with the care of her guests. And she has been fretting about my back which, blessings be, is steadily improving. (A bit more care called for!) But I have not liked the look of the tense, slender (scrawny??) figure I see, and told her so. We talked long and hard about her embarking on a programme to put on weight. She kinda nods in agreement but makes no secret of her liking for her current high-exercise, low-calorie lifestyle. I guess we'll have to work things out. It ain't going to be quick or easy, though, that's clear.
And me, I continue editing Asia Today, a little pool of tranquillity in the storm whipped ocean of the newsroom. I've quite enjoyed it. It means scanning the following day's diary and trying to set up a programme that will look at the events facing Asia during the day ahead -- quite difficult when you're working the previous day, so to speak. And especially when your correspondents are all going to bed more or less as you settle down to work. There was the nastiest of incidents recently when a new journalist cut the wrong pictures into a report we transmitted on Kashmir (a proper hornets' nest of humanity, if ever there was one.) The political pooh hit the fan in no uncertain manner & gave me a side view of top-level crisis management as the brass tried to undo the damage. I gave quiet thanks that I was not the unfortunate soul concerned. She must have wanted to curl up in a corner and die. And it's so easy! There but for the grace of God.....! Truly, I give thanks for many blessings.
Let me get this off before Mum's bedtime comes. From me and Mave, greetings around the globe!
My dear folks,
It's Tuesday evening. Another grey one. It's been quite cold - if I say so myself. When the little blue tags (for minus temps) appear on the electronic weather map within spitting distance of mid-summer's day, one blinks. And one is blinking right now. There's been a stream of cold air from the north Atlantic. I'm not complaining, mind you. I rather like it. Chills the knuckles on the bike, but helps me to sleep like a dream. It's easy enough to warm our little nest, all but impossible to cool it.
Jones held a ladies' luncheon today to celebrate the visit of Maureen and Marielle. Half a dozen acquaintances rolled up with tributes of flowers and other goodies. I gathered from her that it went okay. Jones had time only for a few words on my return from work before rushing out - against her inclinations - for dinner with her guests. It’s Marielle's last night (I think). Maureen will be staying on a while (if she's good). Jones returns to Portugal on Sunday morning and I follow her four weeks later.
Thank you for your fax, Kevin, hard on the heels of Ann's. Do I get the impression that it's bad policy to ask the mildest of questions about reported kart speeds? Well, don't get us wrong for a moment. We highly-trained journalists automatically check our facts (when it suits us. The rest of the time we just make it up, as you know). That's all there was to it. (And we can't be blamed if our recollection of karts is putt-putting around a green-mamba exercise circuit in topless golf cart with a private bar on board.) Our compliments to our nephew were sincere enough. He had clearly driven the race of his life.
Jones, like Kevin, has found her life running out of control since she stopped working for a firm and started working for herself. She has never been so busy, either. I confess I wonder whether destiny has a nasty sense of humour. The London visit has inevitably been largely taken up with the care of her guests. And she has been fretting about my back which, blessings be, is steadily improving. (A bit more care called for!) But I have not liked the look of the tense, slender (scrawny??) figure I see, and told her so. We talked long and hard about her embarking on a programme to put on weight. She kinda nods in agreement but makes no secret of her liking for her current high-exercise, low-calorie lifestyle. I guess we'll have to work things out. It ain't going to be quick or easy, though, that's clear.
And me, I continue editing Asia Today, a little pool of tranquillity in the storm whipped ocean of the newsroom. I've quite enjoyed it. It means scanning the following day's diary and trying to set up a programme that will look at the events facing Asia during the day ahead -- quite difficult when you're working the previous day, so to speak. And especially when your correspondents are all going to bed more or less as you settle down to work. There was the nastiest of incidents recently when a new journalist cut the wrong pictures into a report we transmitted on Kashmir (a proper hornets' nest of humanity, if ever there was one.) The political pooh hit the fan in no uncertain manner & gave me a side view of top-level crisis management as the brass tried to undo the damage. I gave quiet thanks that I was not the unfortunate soul concerned. She must have wanted to curl up in a corner and die. And it's so easy! There but for the grace of God.....! Truly, I give thanks for many blessings.
Let me get this off before Mum's bedtime comes. From me and Mave, greetings around the globe!
10June1995
London: 10th June 1995
My dear folks,
Mavis snores away on the bed. The sun has come out to cheer up the evening. Jones has taken Maureen & Mariel to Sissinghurst to admire the flowers. I've had a lazy day watching first the rugby & then the finals of the women's tennis in Paris. I put my back out slightly turning the mattress & then, while trying to exercise away the discomfort, upset it further. So I have had a very subdued weekend. Jones, having visions of nursing a cripple in a wheelchair, wagged an irate finger under my nose and swore that I should never pick up anything ever again (and much else besides)...a bit excessive! But as I tell her, she isn't happy unless she's got something to worry about. I've alternated between strapping ice-packs & hotties to the region concerned & I'm glad to report steady progress.
The rugby was interrupted by a screech of tyres and an ominous thud outside the window. Hysterical wailing followed. I took one peek & called an ambulance (which arrived within seconds - most impressive). However, I suspect there was little it could do for the victim, a pedestrian. I gave thanks for my sore back, in a manner of speaking. Descartes might have worked out that he thought therefore he was. But millions of humans could have told him that "we ache therefore we are" is equally valid & probably truer for most.
Maureen & Mariel (from a wine-growing family who produce several excellent reds on their estate near Bordeaux) have moved in upstairs. Jones spent many pleasant weeks with them in years gone by when Maureen had a magnificent home in the area. Jones & I are occupying the study for the moment. Mariel asked her agent here in Britain to deliver three cases of the estate wine. We made a start on it last night, demolishing two bottles quite effortlessly. It's lovely & light & very forgiving. I doubt we should be able to afford it in other circumstances.
Thank you Cathy for your screed on developments in Neustadt. You sure keep yourself busy. (Did the rat come from the rathaus?) I think I have sorted out car arrangements for Portugal & shall fax across a copy of the instructions I have sent the agents. You ought to get the vouchers in due course. Roll on July. My appetite for holidays grows at a frightening pace. Hold thumbs that I win the lottery tonight. One of the two builders at the Quinta has taken a week to visit England & the other is taking it easy in his absence. (We are hoping the former will call & taken down a load of stuff to the Quinta in the van he was intending to purchase here.) They both find it hard to labour away in the heat. The latest photos show them working bronzed & bare-chested, and the walls of the Pig-Pen/workshop rising steadily. Our guests love the weather, mind you, so we don't complain.
It's been mixed here & much cooler these past few days. I like it that way. It's hard to sleep when it's hot. The evenings stretch out till 22.00 and it's light again long before 05.00. Mid-summer's day approaches already. Gosh, I remember saluting the New Year just a few weeks ago. It's just scary where it goes. My latest cosmology book (The Last Three Minutes by Paul Davies) has a chapter on the flexibility of Time. It can, I read, stretch like an elastic. But I knew that without Einstein's help or any clever cosmologist. When they find out how to slow it down, that's when I'll be really impressed.
The girls are back. Cocktails are being served. I shall go & here how they enjoyed Sissinghurst & enjoy another glass or two of "Chateau La Croix Bonnelle".
My dear folks,
Mavis snores away on the bed. The sun has come out to cheer up the evening. Jones has taken Maureen & Mariel to Sissinghurst to admire the flowers. I've had a lazy day watching first the rugby & then the finals of the women's tennis in Paris. I put my back out slightly turning the mattress & then, while trying to exercise away the discomfort, upset it further. So I have had a very subdued weekend. Jones, having visions of nursing a cripple in a wheelchair, wagged an irate finger under my nose and swore that I should never pick up anything ever again (and much else besides)...a bit excessive! But as I tell her, she isn't happy unless she's got something to worry about. I've alternated between strapping ice-packs & hotties to the region concerned & I'm glad to report steady progress.
The rugby was interrupted by a screech of tyres and an ominous thud outside the window. Hysterical wailing followed. I took one peek & called an ambulance (which arrived within seconds - most impressive). However, I suspect there was little it could do for the victim, a pedestrian. I gave thanks for my sore back, in a manner of speaking. Descartes might have worked out that he thought therefore he was. But millions of humans could have told him that "we ache therefore we are" is equally valid & probably truer for most.
Maureen & Mariel (from a wine-growing family who produce several excellent reds on their estate near Bordeaux) have moved in upstairs. Jones spent many pleasant weeks with them in years gone by when Maureen had a magnificent home in the area. Jones & I are occupying the study for the moment. Mariel asked her agent here in Britain to deliver three cases of the estate wine. We made a start on it last night, demolishing two bottles quite effortlessly. It's lovely & light & very forgiving. I doubt we should be able to afford it in other circumstances.
Thank you Cathy for your screed on developments in Neustadt. You sure keep yourself busy. (Did the rat come from the rathaus?) I think I have sorted out car arrangements for Portugal & shall fax across a copy of the instructions I have sent the agents. You ought to get the vouchers in due course. Roll on July. My appetite for holidays grows at a frightening pace. Hold thumbs that I win the lottery tonight. One of the two builders at the Quinta has taken a week to visit England & the other is taking it easy in his absence. (We are hoping the former will call & taken down a load of stuff to the Quinta in the van he was intending to purchase here.) They both find it hard to labour away in the heat. The latest photos show them working bronzed & bare-chested, and the walls of the Pig-Pen/workshop rising steadily. Our guests love the weather, mind you, so we don't complain.
It's been mixed here & much cooler these past few days. I like it that way. It's hard to sleep when it's hot. The evenings stretch out till 22.00 and it's light again long before 05.00. Mid-summer's day approaches already. Gosh, I remember saluting the New Year just a few weeks ago. It's just scary where it goes. My latest cosmology book (The Last Three Minutes by Paul Davies) has a chapter on the flexibility of Time. It can, I read, stretch like an elastic. But I knew that without Einstein's help or any clever cosmologist. When they find out how to slow it down, that's when I'll be really impressed.
The girls are back. Cocktails are being served. I shall go & here how they enjoyed Sissinghurst & enjoy another glass or two of "Chateau La Croix Bonnelle".
20May1995
London: 20th May 1995
My dear folks,
Seven p.m. - munching a brown bread (no marge or butter) & cheese (low-fat) sandwich & sipping a glass of mellow Rioja. (I have taken careful note of a study which found that wine drinkers live longer than either non-drinkers or imbibers of other alcoholic drinks.) Mavis lies in the passage. The vet said he was not to go out for a day or two. He doesn't know that & can't understand why I ignore the pantomime of his little sprints for the door each time I move. It's a pleasant evening. Nothing dazzling, but nice enough to leave the patio door ajar.
I've another lazy day to report & I've enjoyed it hugely. I rose late again (nearly finished the book now - and losing enthusiasm for it), missing Jones's first call of the day. After a fiddle about on the computer morning, I took myself off for a stroll around the neighbourhood (missing Jones's second call about (her brother-in-law) Ced having his pocket picked at the gypsy market & losing the car keys. Was that all? And have you obtained a replacement set?)
I stopped off at a cafe half-way to buy a loaf of my favourite thick-cut brown bread. On an impulse, I also bought a slab of chocolate (never mind the size) which I munched contentedly on the way home, stopping off for 30 mins at the sports ground to watch a cricket match. At home, I settled down in front of the TV to watch the football cup final, only to fall fast asleep for most of it, Mavis equally fast asleep on my lap. Since then I've had a word with a friend in Jhb, Gary Edwards, who's due over soon, about hotels he might patronise in Paris.
The computer, which never lies, informs me that I have won 195 games of FreeCell & lost 95, a strike rate of 67%. I reckon I've got the hang of the wretched thing now, although I still run into games occasionally which require 4 or 5 restarts before I can figure them out. Worse than the plague!
It's back to work tomorrow. I shall return in good health after one of the most recuperating of weeks (if you will allow the phrase) I can recall. I shall have to do some serious catching up on my region. It's been busy in my absence, with a split rending the ruling Congress Party in India & all kinds of developments in the Far East (known these days as the Asia Pacific region). British news is dominated by the continuing debate over the Nolan Committee report on parliamentary reforms. Conservative Party MPs are fiercely resisting proposals which would see their income from outside activities publicised & the activities themselves restricted. Mr Major, who set up the Nolan Committee himself after a series of embarrassing revelations about MPs' financial sidelines, is now caught between its recommendations & his MPs.
The Lottery will be drawn shortly. If I discover that I have suddenly joined the Millionaires Club you may expect another fax this evening. In fact, I might just fly out to give you the news myself. Aware as I am, however, of the 14m-to-1 chances, I am not counting any lottery chickens. Still, it's something to look forward to each week.
My dear folks,
Seven p.m. - munching a brown bread (no marge or butter) & cheese (low-fat) sandwich & sipping a glass of mellow Rioja. (I have taken careful note of a study which found that wine drinkers live longer than either non-drinkers or imbibers of other alcoholic drinks.) Mavis lies in the passage. The vet said he was not to go out for a day or two. He doesn't know that & can't understand why I ignore the pantomime of his little sprints for the door each time I move. It's a pleasant evening. Nothing dazzling, but nice enough to leave the patio door ajar.
I've another lazy day to report & I've enjoyed it hugely. I rose late again (nearly finished the book now - and losing enthusiasm for it), missing Jones's first call of the day. After a fiddle about on the computer morning, I took myself off for a stroll around the neighbourhood (missing Jones's second call about (her brother-in-law) Ced having his pocket picked at the gypsy market & losing the car keys. Was that all? And have you obtained a replacement set?)
I stopped off at a cafe half-way to buy a loaf of my favourite thick-cut brown bread. On an impulse, I also bought a slab of chocolate (never mind the size) which I munched contentedly on the way home, stopping off for 30 mins at the sports ground to watch a cricket match. At home, I settled down in front of the TV to watch the football cup final, only to fall fast asleep for most of it, Mavis equally fast asleep on my lap. Since then I've had a word with a friend in Jhb, Gary Edwards, who's due over soon, about hotels he might patronise in Paris.
The computer, which never lies, informs me that I have won 195 games of FreeCell & lost 95, a strike rate of 67%. I reckon I've got the hang of the wretched thing now, although I still run into games occasionally which require 4 or 5 restarts before I can figure them out. Worse than the plague!
It's back to work tomorrow. I shall return in good health after one of the most recuperating of weeks (if you will allow the phrase) I can recall. I shall have to do some serious catching up on my region. It's been busy in my absence, with a split rending the ruling Congress Party in India & all kinds of developments in the Far East (known these days as the Asia Pacific region). British news is dominated by the continuing debate over the Nolan Committee report on parliamentary reforms. Conservative Party MPs are fiercely resisting proposals which would see their income from outside activities publicised & the activities themselves restricted. Mr Major, who set up the Nolan Committee himself after a series of embarrassing revelations about MPs' financial sidelines, is now caught between its recommendations & his MPs.
The Lottery will be drawn shortly. If I discover that I have suddenly joined the Millionaires Club you may expect another fax this evening. In fact, I might just fly out to give you the news myself. Aware as I am, however, of the 14m-to-1 chances, I am not counting any lottery chickens. Still, it's something to look forward to each week.
8May1995
London: 8th May 1995
My dear folks .
Monday night & nearly bedtime. But time enough for a few words to fax to you in the morning. See what happens when you work in Television. You stop writing in sentences & revert to phrases & clauses. TV journalists are meant to let the pictures tell the story & just help them along, rather than make a series of related statements as in radio. Well that's as may be & not of much use at all when there are no pictures. I have to tell you that I am not enthused about this stream of consciousness stuff. Give me a nicely constructed sentence any day. Which brings me pretty close to the end of a paragraph with little of consequence writ. Sometimes, that's how it goes.
It's been a day of pageantry on a vast scale across Europe. Our producers worked themselves into crispy frazzles with constant live crossings to Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, France & Germany. I found myself saddled, at short notice, with responsibility for a programme I had never worked on before (in addition to my own) & promptly began popping bulbs of my own. Felt like driving blindfold at high speed. Lots of people kept on asking me questions to which my inevitable response was: What do you think? Whatever they thought, we did. In the end, it worked!
Of course, Queenie & Queen Mum (nearly 95) did their thing on the balcony at Buck.P, reliving their appearance of 50 years ago. And the show carried on at Hyde Park all day, with Vera Lynn still in glorious voice half a century later (unlike Cliff Richard, who looks still looks better than he sounds). Amazing! You can see the difference but you can't hear it (not easily). The events have been all over TV this evening together with the nation's favourite entertainers & all the old songs, most of which I rather like.
It's much cooler. I found Mavis outside on my return. He marched upstairs with me, demanding supper instantly, & then retired for the night. This morning, as I descended the stairs, he shot down ahead of me and lost his footing on a belt I'd left lying there. He slid down four steps, found his footing at the bottom & promptly looked up to see if I was laughing at him. I kept a serious face for the occasion but kept on bursting into shrieks of laughter in the shower.
My dear folks .
Monday night & nearly bedtime. But time enough for a few words to fax to you in the morning. See what happens when you work in Television. You stop writing in sentences & revert to phrases & clauses. TV journalists are meant to let the pictures tell the story & just help them along, rather than make a series of related statements as in radio. Well that's as may be & not of much use at all when there are no pictures. I have to tell you that I am not enthused about this stream of consciousness stuff. Give me a nicely constructed sentence any day. Which brings me pretty close to the end of a paragraph with little of consequence writ. Sometimes, that's how it goes.
It's been a day of pageantry on a vast scale across Europe. Our producers worked themselves into crispy frazzles with constant live crossings to Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, France & Germany. I found myself saddled, at short notice, with responsibility for a programme I had never worked on before (in addition to my own) & promptly began popping bulbs of my own. Felt like driving blindfold at high speed. Lots of people kept on asking me questions to which my inevitable response was: What do you think? Whatever they thought, we did. In the end, it worked!
Of course, Queenie & Queen Mum (nearly 95) did their thing on the balcony at Buck.P, reliving their appearance of 50 years ago. And the show carried on at Hyde Park all day, with Vera Lynn still in glorious voice half a century later (unlike Cliff Richard, who looks still looks better than he sounds). Amazing! You can see the difference but you can't hear it (not easily). The events have been all over TV this evening together with the nation's favourite entertainers & all the old songs, most of which I rather like.
It's much cooler. I found Mavis outside on my return. He marched upstairs with me, demanding supper instantly, & then retired for the night. This morning, as I descended the stairs, he shot down ahead of me and lost his footing on a belt I'd left lying there. He slid down four steps, found his footing at the bottom & promptly looked up to see if I was laughing at him. I kept a serious face for the occasion but kept on bursting into shrieks of laughter in the shower.
6May1995
London: 6th May 1995
My dear Mum and Jones
Saturday evening, going on for 1800: But there's still a hot sun in the sky. Far too hot to tempt me out for at least another hour - when I shall douse the patio plants. They'll need it too. I have had the loveliest day, a Jones kind of day. I have barely been out of the flat, except to fetch the post this morning. Mavis has been sprawled out beside me all day. He tries to occupy the largest possible space, as if his stretching himself to the four winds helps him to stay cool. Last night, he condescended to come inside and decided to join me on the bed where he promptly started snoring. In spite of getting his ribs thumped from time to time, he chose to stay there. What a funny guy!
I devoted the morning to cleaning & I've spent the afternoon on the computer, a mixture of work & play. The flat has been vacuumed from top to bottom. Makes me feel quite virtuous. I had a phone call from Ann-Christine inviting me to a braai this evening but (we) decided after discussing it that the traffic around Hyde Park would be simply unbearable & we postponed it for a week. The VE Day celebrations are in full swing. The poor bastards must have cooked. Hell but it's been hot. Up in the 80s again & weather either for swimming or staying indoors.
I had a chat to Catherine last night. She'll be winging her way southwards as I type, taking our good wishes with her, Mother. (I have been thinking of your twisted ankle. I do hope it's improved & improving.) Today's mail brought a card from her & 2 photos of her daughters, looking utterly angelic at Anita's first Communion. Erica has shot up since last I saw her. How well I understand a parent's wish not to slow a child's growth but to allow the child to experience the fullness of childhood before the tidal wave of adolescence sweeps over it.
Big fuss here over the dismissal from the England rugby team (arriving in South Africa for the World Cup) of their captain, Will Carling, fired for calling the Executive of English rugby: "57 old farts". The issue seems to be less whether they are old farts than whether they should be described as such. Funny world that one loose word should wreak such havoc with a career.
Phone call there from Herman downstairs, asking whether I should like a glass of cold Rose wine on his patio. I pointed out to him that it would not be my first glass of cold Rose wine this evening. But this deterred him not at all. So let me add just a few words before I go down and wish you lots of love.
My dear Mum and Jones
Saturday evening, going on for 1800: But there's still a hot sun in the sky. Far too hot to tempt me out for at least another hour - when I shall douse the patio plants. They'll need it too. I have had the loveliest day, a Jones kind of day. I have barely been out of the flat, except to fetch the post this morning. Mavis has been sprawled out beside me all day. He tries to occupy the largest possible space, as if his stretching himself to the four winds helps him to stay cool. Last night, he condescended to come inside and decided to join me on the bed where he promptly started snoring. In spite of getting his ribs thumped from time to time, he chose to stay there. What a funny guy!
I devoted the morning to cleaning & I've spent the afternoon on the computer, a mixture of work & play. The flat has been vacuumed from top to bottom. Makes me feel quite virtuous. I had a phone call from Ann-Christine inviting me to a braai this evening but (we) decided after discussing it that the traffic around Hyde Park would be simply unbearable & we postponed it for a week. The VE Day celebrations are in full swing. The poor bastards must have cooked. Hell but it's been hot. Up in the 80s again & weather either for swimming or staying indoors.
I had a chat to Catherine last night. She'll be winging her way southwards as I type, taking our good wishes with her, Mother. (I have been thinking of your twisted ankle. I do hope it's improved & improving.) Today's mail brought a card from her & 2 photos of her daughters, looking utterly angelic at Anita's first Communion. Erica has shot up since last I saw her. How well I understand a parent's wish not to slow a child's growth but to allow the child to experience the fullness of childhood before the tidal wave of adolescence sweeps over it.
Big fuss here over the dismissal from the England rugby team (arriving in South Africa for the World Cup) of their captain, Will Carling, fired for calling the Executive of English rugby: "57 old farts". The issue seems to be less whether they are old farts than whether they should be described as such. Funny world that one loose word should wreak such havoc with a career.
Phone call there from Herman downstairs, asking whether I should like a glass of cold Rose wine on his patio. I pointed out to him that it would not be my first glass of cold Rose wine this evening. But this deterred him not at all. So let me add just a few words before I go down and wish you lots of love.
5May1995
London & Portugal: 5th May 1995
My dear folks,
What a busy day & what a hot one - in the 80s. It started late. I had pulled the blinds & closed the door when I eventually retired in the early hours after staying up to watch a programme on the outcome of yesterday's local elections in England. The last time I saw such political devastation was the previous Canadian election where the ruling Progressive Conservatives were reduced, as I recall, to two seats. It's the kind of message from the electorate that spells oblivion. Britain's ruling Conservatives were nearly as sorely wounded as the nation signalled its dissatisfaction with their governance, angrily ousting long-serving councillors around the country in what the opposition gleefully called a meltdown. The final toll speaks for itself: Labour 155 councils; 44 to the Liberal Democrats & 8 to the Conservatives (who no longer hold a single council in Scotland or Wales.) Mr Major insists that he was elected for a 5-year term & still has 2 years to run. But the writing is writ large on the wall for those who will read it.
I was able to entice Mavis back into the house around 0200 before retiring, but he preferred to spend the night downstairs in the hall. On his own head! I found him outside & ravenous when I descended at 0900 to fetch the post. It contained a passport renewal form which the Irish Embassy had sent me. This I filled in. Then I cycled (after a preliminary phone call) to the bank where a manageress I had never seen before swore she'd known me for years & plastered the form & accompanying photos with official stamps. Bless her. There's nothing quite as reassuring as an official stamp. You can't argue with it. It proclaims its authority to all.
Thence to the Irish Embassy whose address placed it close to Buckingham Palace. I cycled via the back routes of Paddington & through Hyde Park in order to avoid the gaseous soup that passes for air on London's main roads on such days as these. It's truly foul. In the park, I found a vast tent city in the building & traffic stoked up in every direction. It took a couple of moments to register. V E Day (Victory in Europe), the 50th anniversary, is being commemorated this weekend. TV News later informed us that more than a million people are expected to attend an event described as the biggest to be staged in 40 years. I shall stay far away from it.
The embassy waiting room was mercifully under-populated. Two small girls were occupying themselves & their mothers & entertaining the rest of us with their antics. One of them climbed up on the chair beside me & then loudly informed her mum that: "Man looking at me!" Indeed I was. I told her that she'd better get used to it for a great many more men were likely to do the same, a sentiment with a ring of truth that pleased the assembly. 15 minutes later I was done. I could collect my new passport in a fortnight. The official stamps had clearly done the trick.
Home again via a furniture shop which is having a sale & where Jones had asked me to purchase 4 folding chairs for MCP. They had only 3 but expected to obtain more next week. I paid & arranged to collect them. They were ridiculously inexpensive. When I looked closely, I saw that they were made in China. Hard to compete with such labour costs. At the flat, an urgent message to phone the office was waiting on the answerphone. Would I come in early on Monday & Tuesday to free up a producer to reinforce our crews in Croatia? The answer to such requests is inevitably YES. Hope the bastards show their gratitude.
For lunch, I had microwaved macaroni cheese. Since Jones's departure, I have reconnected the microwave & bought a supply of readies. Every day, I move 1 or 2 from the freezer to the fridge & then, at the appropriate hour, I bung them into the microwave which spits out dinner 5 minutes later. Back on the bike for a 30 minute ride to Islington to give Penny another computer lesson. She's making good progress but her computer continues to behave erratically. Richard plans to take it into the office for an electronic overhaul which it needs.
I have been watering the patio plants copiously these past few evenings to help them survive the heatwave. Jones gave them a much needed trim before leaving for Portugal. (She has also been labouring in the garden down there, but I shall let her speak for herself in a moment).
With the advent of summer, the little community we gaze down upon has emerged from behind its winter doors. People, dogs, cats & plants suddenly come alive in the patchwork of inner London gardens beneath us. The patio remains our little deposit on heaven. It's so nice.
Much attention given on TV this evening to the danger of sheep-dips to farmers. A report published in The Lancet warns of accumulating evidence that the organo-phosphates used cause serious neurological damage over time. Tragic pictures of an afflicted farmer & his son both staggering around speak volumes. The boffins say the danger is greatly lessened if farmers wear proper protective clothing but the footage of the animals being dipped makes it clear that the wearing of such clothing is neither practical nor practised.
My dear folks,
What a busy day & what a hot one - in the 80s. It started late. I had pulled the blinds & closed the door when I eventually retired in the early hours after staying up to watch a programme on the outcome of yesterday's local elections in England. The last time I saw such political devastation was the previous Canadian election where the ruling Progressive Conservatives were reduced, as I recall, to two seats. It's the kind of message from the electorate that spells oblivion. Britain's ruling Conservatives were nearly as sorely wounded as the nation signalled its dissatisfaction with their governance, angrily ousting long-serving councillors around the country in what the opposition gleefully called a meltdown. The final toll speaks for itself: Labour 155 councils; 44 to the Liberal Democrats & 8 to the Conservatives (who no longer hold a single council in Scotland or Wales.) Mr Major insists that he was elected for a 5-year term & still has 2 years to run. But the writing is writ large on the wall for those who will read it.
I was able to entice Mavis back into the house around 0200 before retiring, but he preferred to spend the night downstairs in the hall. On his own head! I found him outside & ravenous when I descended at 0900 to fetch the post. It contained a passport renewal form which the Irish Embassy had sent me. This I filled in. Then I cycled (after a preliminary phone call) to the bank where a manageress I had never seen before swore she'd known me for years & plastered the form & accompanying photos with official stamps. Bless her. There's nothing quite as reassuring as an official stamp. You can't argue with it. It proclaims its authority to all.
Thence to the Irish Embassy whose address placed it close to Buckingham Palace. I cycled via the back routes of Paddington & through Hyde Park in order to avoid the gaseous soup that passes for air on London's main roads on such days as these. It's truly foul. In the park, I found a vast tent city in the building & traffic stoked up in every direction. It took a couple of moments to register. V E Day (Victory in Europe), the 50th anniversary, is being commemorated this weekend. TV News later informed us that more than a million people are expected to attend an event described as the biggest to be staged in 40 years. I shall stay far away from it.
The embassy waiting room was mercifully under-populated. Two small girls were occupying themselves & their mothers & entertaining the rest of us with their antics. One of them climbed up on the chair beside me & then loudly informed her mum that: "Man looking at me!" Indeed I was. I told her that she'd better get used to it for a great many more men were likely to do the same, a sentiment with a ring of truth that pleased the assembly. 15 minutes later I was done. I could collect my new passport in a fortnight. The official stamps had clearly done the trick.
Home again via a furniture shop which is having a sale & where Jones had asked me to purchase 4 folding chairs for MCP. They had only 3 but expected to obtain more next week. I paid & arranged to collect them. They were ridiculously inexpensive. When I looked closely, I saw that they were made in China. Hard to compete with such labour costs. At the flat, an urgent message to phone the office was waiting on the answerphone. Would I come in early on Monday & Tuesday to free up a producer to reinforce our crews in Croatia? The answer to such requests is inevitably YES. Hope the bastards show their gratitude.
For lunch, I had microwaved macaroni cheese. Since Jones's departure, I have reconnected the microwave & bought a supply of readies. Every day, I move 1 or 2 from the freezer to the fridge & then, at the appropriate hour, I bung them into the microwave which spits out dinner 5 minutes later. Back on the bike for a 30 minute ride to Islington to give Penny another computer lesson. She's making good progress but her computer continues to behave erratically. Richard plans to take it into the office for an electronic overhaul which it needs.
I have been watering the patio plants copiously these past few evenings to help them survive the heatwave. Jones gave them a much needed trim before leaving for Portugal. (She has also been labouring in the garden down there, but I shall let her speak for herself in a moment).
With the advent of summer, the little community we gaze down upon has emerged from behind its winter doors. People, dogs, cats & plants suddenly come alive in the patchwork of inner London gardens beneath us. The patio remains our little deposit on heaven. It's so nice.
Much attention given on TV this evening to the danger of sheep-dips to farmers. A report published in The Lancet warns of accumulating evidence that the organo-phosphates used cause serious neurological damage over time. Tragic pictures of an afflicted farmer & his son both staggering around speak volumes. The boffins say the danger is greatly lessened if farmers wear proper protective clothing but the footage of the animals being dipped makes it clear that the wearing of such clothing is neither practical nor practised.
23April1995
London: 23rd April 1995
My dear folks,
Sunday morning - and not a bad one considering the evil weather forecast for the weekend. It looks like winter's dying gasp & a mean one at that. Snow and ice in Scotland, deep frosts & temps well under zero in England & a messy little depression that now seems to have cleared the country. We had some rain and could have used some more. It's been very dry. The same is true in Portugal where the forecast showed a solid weekend of rain ahead. We gathered that the Algarve had at least had showers & had turned nippy. Indeed, there a couple of BBC colleagues arrived there yesterday & phoned last night to say they could not get one of the gas heaters to work. Could I help? I advised them to light a fire & Jones phoned an adjacent long-stay guest to beg him to take a peek. But I did think it was a lot of money going in phone-calls where an ounce of resilience would have done as well.
We have had an active weekend. It was Jones's last fling before her return to Portugal & there was a lot she wanted to cram in. I meant to sit down & tell you about it last night. But there's a test of character I have to survive each time I sit down at the computer, a siren song that beckons me to heed the sweet voice of the temptress. It's called Free Cell - a kind of thinking person's Solitaire (a game that arrived on my WINDOWS 95 programme). It's addictive, time-consuming, frustrating & wonderfully satisfying on such occasions as one cracks it. The HELP file that comes with the game declares that: "It is believed [although not proven] that every game is winnable", a statement so evidently false in my experience that I am considering legal action against Microsoft. (The rules are simple & I should be more than happy to explain them to anyone who wanted to try the game with a pack of cards! But beware, it's like deliberately catching the plague.)
The weekend began on Thursday evening when we went, at last, to see Forest Gump. Both of us came away puzzled. It's such a mixture of parts, of credible people in the life of a non-credible simpleton - with lots of irony & low-key very clever special effects. What we couldn't figure out was the message, other than the all-American feel-good factor which presumably had the Oscar awarders reaching for their tissues and their vote-cards. Certainly, the two lassies beside me demolished a box of tissues. Jones & I were impressed but unmoved.
Friday morning we walked along the canal & through Regents Park where we caught a tube to the Barbican (a huge development, comprising a ring of blocks of desirable flats around a core of lawns, lakes, theatres, exhibition halls & restaurants.) Jones wanted to see an exhibition of impressionist paintings. All were either by British artists or of British scenes. I rather like impressionist paintings & was pleased to go along. It was worth it, if only to see Claude Monet's Parliament: the effect of fog, - stunning - the star of the show. There was much else that I enjoyed too & much I passed by. Few of the artists meant anything to me, a reflection as much on their achievements as my cultural education. Outside the pigeons made a good living from the crumbs dropping steadily from the tables.
We joined Richard & Penny in the evening to see Nobody's Fool, starring an ageing Paul Newman. He was nevertheless, still gorgeous, declared Jones. I suspect that whatever success the film enjoys will be due largely to his attractions for it has few of its own. It's not a bad film. It just goes on for a long time about life in a very small American town in the heart of winter. Richard, who spent some years in the US, declared that he had enjoyed it for the memories it brought back. We went on to dine in a little taverna just up the road from us.
Saturday morning, we headed for Trafalgar Square where the National Gallery had an exhibition of Spanish still-life. I took a newspaper along with me, just in case. Still-life is not my strong suit. But the newspaper proved unnecessary. The paintings were exceptional, some of them almost luminous. The detail was microscopic and yet not merely photographic. There was a value-added quality. I was fascinated. So were a great many other people. There were lots of Spanish there & lots of Germans.
I envied the Germans as I was to envy the Japanese so evident in Bond Street a little later. They are the only two nationalities who can afford to travel & shop at the moment. Sterling is heading steadily towards the 2 Dm level while the Yen pounds the dollar into the dust. (I know the Japanese who remain at home are not happy about the situation but that's not the point.)
Thence a stroll up to Oxford Street, where Jones wanted to purchase a table cloth for her new apartment & a roll of grass seed. C.S. Lewis were out of the only pattern of table cloth she really liked. I bought two pairs of half-price silk shorts instead & we proceeded to Selfridges for the grass. It's a new Canadian product. The seed is contained within layers of green wood-pulp. The theory is that the paper suppresses the weeds while the seeds grow into a beautiful lawn with regular watering. The drawback is that it's not cheap. We bought sufficient to cover 25 sq ft, which is about as much as Jones will be able to take down.
Later, we drove over to Islington to fetch a bed that Penny & Richard had offered us. I reckoned we could tie it to the roof of the Rocket, which we managed to do. With it came such a hoard of pillows, a duvet, linen & towels as filled the car & obscured the back window. We were thrilled. The bed is intended for London. But most of the rest will prove invaluable in Portugal where we have promised R & P several lifetimes' worth of free holidays in return. The only problem was carting the load upstairs. Happily, neighbours (whom we were due to join for drinks) lent a hand. Negotiating the narrow flights of stairs with a bed is no easy task even, as Kevin might add, for a superb athlete in the peak of condition.
We returned from the drinks to find Mavis squatting (6 ft high) on top of the vertical divan which we'd left standing in the hall. He was not keen to come down either. Clearly, he wanted to get the better of the intruder & establish his dominance before relinquishing the position. We assured him that his situation was secure & that he had nothing to fear from the new furniture. The bed has since been set up in the study where it ought to prove a real boon.
The story of the week has been the Oklahoma bomb. I think I was just about the only person in the Newsroom who wasn't running around on it. The British media have been going strong (as I'm sure yours have too) on the all-American flavour of the incident. For once, no mad Arabs to point a finger at - & the dawning understanding of the danger of the lunatic home-bred right-wing. There have also been a few mean-spirited editorials and letters to the media saying that the Americans may now comprehend how (some of) the British people felt when Mr Clinton rolled out the red carpet for Mr (Gerry) Adams. But of course they will not. And even if Mr Adams were elbow deep in the Belfast bombings, as he may well have been, they're history now, like Vietnam. I see so many reports about Americans wondering why they ever fought that war. Time and the need to trade eventually cure all.
Sunday evening: Home from work. Mum, thanks for your fax (& the Joseph Sibeko letter & and poem), much enjoyed. You & Cathy will both be counting the days. Cath, we thought of you and yours this afternoon on your very special day & wished it went as well as you might have hoped. Also, that the blessings of the day sustain all for the years ahead. Greetings also, Canadians. There were other things I meant to write about but they have flown out of my head. My page is nearly up and Jones summons me to supper - the last but one before she returns to Portugal.
My dear folks,
Sunday morning - and not a bad one considering the evil weather forecast for the weekend. It looks like winter's dying gasp & a mean one at that. Snow and ice in Scotland, deep frosts & temps well under zero in England & a messy little depression that now seems to have cleared the country. We had some rain and could have used some more. It's been very dry. The same is true in Portugal where the forecast showed a solid weekend of rain ahead. We gathered that the Algarve had at least had showers & had turned nippy. Indeed, there a couple of BBC colleagues arrived there yesterday & phoned last night to say they could not get one of the gas heaters to work. Could I help? I advised them to light a fire & Jones phoned an adjacent long-stay guest to beg him to take a peek. But I did think it was a lot of money going in phone-calls where an ounce of resilience would have done as well.
We have had an active weekend. It was Jones's last fling before her return to Portugal & there was a lot she wanted to cram in. I meant to sit down & tell you about it last night. But there's a test of character I have to survive each time I sit down at the computer, a siren song that beckons me to heed the sweet voice of the temptress. It's called Free Cell - a kind of thinking person's Solitaire (a game that arrived on my WINDOWS 95 programme). It's addictive, time-consuming, frustrating & wonderfully satisfying on such occasions as one cracks it. The HELP file that comes with the game declares that: "It is believed [although not proven] that every game is winnable", a statement so evidently false in my experience that I am considering legal action against Microsoft. (The rules are simple & I should be more than happy to explain them to anyone who wanted to try the game with a pack of cards! But beware, it's like deliberately catching the plague.)
The weekend began on Thursday evening when we went, at last, to see Forest Gump. Both of us came away puzzled. It's such a mixture of parts, of credible people in the life of a non-credible simpleton - with lots of irony & low-key very clever special effects. What we couldn't figure out was the message, other than the all-American feel-good factor which presumably had the Oscar awarders reaching for their tissues and their vote-cards. Certainly, the two lassies beside me demolished a box of tissues. Jones & I were impressed but unmoved.
Friday morning we walked along the canal & through Regents Park where we caught a tube to the Barbican (a huge development, comprising a ring of blocks of desirable flats around a core of lawns, lakes, theatres, exhibition halls & restaurants.) Jones wanted to see an exhibition of impressionist paintings. All were either by British artists or of British scenes. I rather like impressionist paintings & was pleased to go along. It was worth it, if only to see Claude Monet's Parliament: the effect of fog, - stunning - the star of the show. There was much else that I enjoyed too & much I passed by. Few of the artists meant anything to me, a reflection as much on their achievements as my cultural education. Outside the pigeons made a good living from the crumbs dropping steadily from the tables.
We joined Richard & Penny in the evening to see Nobody's Fool, starring an ageing Paul Newman. He was nevertheless, still gorgeous, declared Jones. I suspect that whatever success the film enjoys will be due largely to his attractions for it has few of its own. It's not a bad film. It just goes on for a long time about life in a very small American town in the heart of winter. Richard, who spent some years in the US, declared that he had enjoyed it for the memories it brought back. We went on to dine in a little taverna just up the road from us.
Saturday morning, we headed for Trafalgar Square where the National Gallery had an exhibition of Spanish still-life. I took a newspaper along with me, just in case. Still-life is not my strong suit. But the newspaper proved unnecessary. The paintings were exceptional, some of them almost luminous. The detail was microscopic and yet not merely photographic. There was a value-added quality. I was fascinated. So were a great many other people. There were lots of Spanish there & lots of Germans.
I envied the Germans as I was to envy the Japanese so evident in Bond Street a little later. They are the only two nationalities who can afford to travel & shop at the moment. Sterling is heading steadily towards the 2 Dm level while the Yen pounds the dollar into the dust. (I know the Japanese who remain at home are not happy about the situation but that's not the point.)
Thence a stroll up to Oxford Street, where Jones wanted to purchase a table cloth for her new apartment & a roll of grass seed. C.S. Lewis were out of the only pattern of table cloth she really liked. I bought two pairs of half-price silk shorts instead & we proceeded to Selfridges for the grass. It's a new Canadian product. The seed is contained within layers of green wood-pulp. The theory is that the paper suppresses the weeds while the seeds grow into a beautiful lawn with regular watering. The drawback is that it's not cheap. We bought sufficient to cover 25 sq ft, which is about as much as Jones will be able to take down.
Later, we drove over to Islington to fetch a bed that Penny & Richard had offered us. I reckoned we could tie it to the roof of the Rocket, which we managed to do. With it came such a hoard of pillows, a duvet, linen & towels as filled the car & obscured the back window. We were thrilled. The bed is intended for London. But most of the rest will prove invaluable in Portugal where we have promised R & P several lifetimes' worth of free holidays in return. The only problem was carting the load upstairs. Happily, neighbours (whom we were due to join for drinks) lent a hand. Negotiating the narrow flights of stairs with a bed is no easy task even, as Kevin might add, for a superb athlete in the peak of condition.
We returned from the drinks to find Mavis squatting (6 ft high) on top of the vertical divan which we'd left standing in the hall. He was not keen to come down either. Clearly, he wanted to get the better of the intruder & establish his dominance before relinquishing the position. We assured him that his situation was secure & that he had nothing to fear from the new furniture. The bed has since been set up in the study where it ought to prove a real boon.
The story of the week has been the Oklahoma bomb. I think I was just about the only person in the Newsroom who wasn't running around on it. The British media have been going strong (as I'm sure yours have too) on the all-American flavour of the incident. For once, no mad Arabs to point a finger at - & the dawning understanding of the danger of the lunatic home-bred right-wing. There have also been a few mean-spirited editorials and letters to the media saying that the Americans may now comprehend how (some of) the British people felt when Mr Clinton rolled out the red carpet for Mr (Gerry) Adams. But of course they will not. And even if Mr Adams were elbow deep in the Belfast bombings, as he may well have been, they're history now, like Vietnam. I see so many reports about Americans wondering why they ever fought that war. Time and the need to trade eventually cure all.
Sunday evening: Home from work. Mum, thanks for your fax (& the Joseph Sibeko letter & and poem), much enjoyed. You & Cathy will both be counting the days. Cath, we thought of you and yours this afternoon on your very special day & wished it went as well as you might have hoped. Also, that the blessings of the day sustain all for the years ahead. Greetings also, Canadians. There were other things I meant to write about but they have flown out of my head. My page is nearly up and Jones summons me to supper - the last but one before she returns to Portugal.
14April1995
London: 14th April 1995
My dear folks,
Good Friday! Jones & I both woke a mite bleary-eyed after rather too good a supper last night. But a shower, a cup of coffee & a couple of slices of toast saw us right & off to Penny & Richard's house in Islington. I was due to give Penny another WINDOWS lesson & Richard had invited Jones to take the opportunity to go walking with him. Penny & I settled down at the computer & the pair of them vanished. They reappeared 3 hours later, enthused with Islington's treasure-chest. We lunched graciously before taking another stroll, this time down the canal which runs just a few metres from their front door. Indeed, until a few decades ago, the road separating them from the opposite row of houses was a river.
Before I leave the subject of computers, let me tell you that I returned from work last night to find a box of special goodies awaiting me, my WINDOWS 95 trial programme. Inside were 3 manuals, 12 floppies, a CD & a pamphlet advising customers to read the manuals before installing the program. This behaviour, as you may know, goes against all Benson instincts. I shall restrain my enthusiasm to tell you more as I restrained my impatience to get at it. In fact, I've barely had time to glance at the manuals. Exciting days ahead!
At work, I had various brief discussions with my bosses last week regarding my future. This had become a grey area as it became apparent that my pending appointment to Arab TV was a nonsense. The Saudi consortium which buys & markets BBC Arab TV had cancelled their request for extended transmissions until future notice, leaving the Beeb with more Arab appointees than it knew what to do with. As a temporary measure, I was asked to take over Asia Today, a news segment which transmits three 12-minute programmes overnight. The brass indicated to me that I could opt to return to Bush House (the radio service) or stay on in TV. I chose the latter & my permanent appointment to English TV was confirmed on Friday, regrettably, sans the promotion involved in the Arabic appointment. That's life.
So's tooth decay. After a glorious period of painless chomping, the pair of us presented ourselves to Mr Hely, the dentist, for check-ups. He's the nicest dentist, the only one I know to offer his patients a choice of coffee or cognac before & after appointments. He took a poke around our mouths & pronounced lots of work to be done. That was some months ago. Since then, we've been going regularly, Jones walking in to Harley Street & I cycling in for an early session before work. The bills arrived last week. We knew they were going to be eina but not that sore - much more painful than the treatment. There are times in life when one grits one's teeth and these are such. It's possible to get dental treatment on the national health (if you can find a dentist who will accept you, increasingly few & far between) but not the kind of treatment you get from Mr Hely. You don't want dentures, he tells us, and he's dead right. Rather a depleted bank balance than one's teeth in a glass overnight.
Back to today & the 3-page fax that curled in from Canada this morning, followed by another 3-pager from Germany this afternoon. Canadians, you sure have been getting around. But it sounded like an excellent trip. I could empathise with your feelings about Disneyland. Conal, Micaela & I hit the EuroDisney rides just as hard.
And Cathy, golly but the Germans seem to take their religion as seriously as their rules. I do hope the big day goes well after all the effort you've been putting in. This is just meant to be a shortie. So I'll rein it in & wish you Happy Easter and send you lots of love.
My dear folks,
Good Friday! Jones & I both woke a mite bleary-eyed after rather too good a supper last night. But a shower, a cup of coffee & a couple of slices of toast saw us right & off to Penny & Richard's house in Islington. I was due to give Penny another WINDOWS lesson & Richard had invited Jones to take the opportunity to go walking with him. Penny & I settled down at the computer & the pair of them vanished. They reappeared 3 hours later, enthused with Islington's treasure-chest. We lunched graciously before taking another stroll, this time down the canal which runs just a few metres from their front door. Indeed, until a few decades ago, the road separating them from the opposite row of houses was a river.
Before I leave the subject of computers, let me tell you that I returned from work last night to find a box of special goodies awaiting me, my WINDOWS 95 trial programme. Inside were 3 manuals, 12 floppies, a CD & a pamphlet advising customers to read the manuals before installing the program. This behaviour, as you may know, goes against all Benson instincts. I shall restrain my enthusiasm to tell you more as I restrained my impatience to get at it. In fact, I've barely had time to glance at the manuals. Exciting days ahead!
At work, I had various brief discussions with my bosses last week regarding my future. This had become a grey area as it became apparent that my pending appointment to Arab TV was a nonsense. The Saudi consortium which buys & markets BBC Arab TV had cancelled their request for extended transmissions until future notice, leaving the Beeb with more Arab appointees than it knew what to do with. As a temporary measure, I was asked to take over Asia Today, a news segment which transmits three 12-minute programmes overnight. The brass indicated to me that I could opt to return to Bush House (the radio service) or stay on in TV. I chose the latter & my permanent appointment to English TV was confirmed on Friday, regrettably, sans the promotion involved in the Arabic appointment. That's life.
So's tooth decay. After a glorious period of painless chomping, the pair of us presented ourselves to Mr Hely, the dentist, for check-ups. He's the nicest dentist, the only one I know to offer his patients a choice of coffee or cognac before & after appointments. He took a poke around our mouths & pronounced lots of work to be done. That was some months ago. Since then, we've been going regularly, Jones walking in to Harley Street & I cycling in for an early session before work. The bills arrived last week. We knew they were going to be eina but not that sore - much more painful than the treatment. There are times in life when one grits one's teeth and these are such. It's possible to get dental treatment on the national health (if you can find a dentist who will accept you, increasingly few & far between) but not the kind of treatment you get from Mr Hely. You don't want dentures, he tells us, and he's dead right. Rather a depleted bank balance than one's teeth in a glass overnight.
Back to today & the 3-page fax that curled in from Canada this morning, followed by another 3-pager from Germany this afternoon. Canadians, you sure have been getting around. But it sounded like an excellent trip. I could empathise with your feelings about Disneyland. Conal, Micaela & I hit the EuroDisney rides just as hard.
And Cathy, golly but the Germans seem to take their religion as seriously as their rules. I do hope the big day goes well after all the effort you've been putting in. This is just meant to be a shortie. So I'll rein it in & wish you Happy Easter and send you lots of love.
1April1995
London: 1st April 1995
My dear folks,
I thought I had to write to you today as it's the first day of summer and this makes such a change in our lives as cannot be allowed to pass unremarked. For the first time this year, we opened the patio door and pinned it back against the wall and breathed in the garden airs that wafted up from the quilt of backyards below. It was warm enough to step outside without the comfort of a jersey. The patio itself looks badly in need of love and attention. Many of the hardier residents have survived winter's rigours but they are brown & straggly, gritty-eyed from their long hibernation. Jones has peered through the door several times in recent days, sighed loudly, & told herself that at the first opportunity she must get to work in it. No doubt she will - & will have it looking trim before her return to the Quinta in three weeks.
We breakfasted late - brunched - after I'd spent an hour in the flat below erecting two shelves for one of the occupants. The tenant does not hesitate to ask for such assistance and I don't mind giving it from time to time. Brunch was brown rolls & coffee, plus egg fried bread. Delicious! On the nutbag outside, three sparrows fussed & pecked & tried to shoulder each other off the best perch. Later, a blue tit arrived for lunch. They are so delicate & gorgeous (by London standards) that we freeze & watch in appreciative fascination. I don't mean to sound over the top. It's just that the tits are the very antithesis of our skybox inner-city existence, a hint of nature's treasure chest.
I as write, the crews of the Oxford and Cambridge boats are carrying their sculls down to the Thames for their annual clash. The ubiquitous camera focuses on their faces as their weight & history of each oarsman is traced. No doubt you will know the result long before my letter arrives. Jones spent a year at Cambridge & knows who she supports. I generally support the underdog which this year again is Oxford.
Yesterday, I cycled 30 minutes over to Islington to give a friend an introduction to the Windows programme. Her other half is a long-standing computer user but I thought that domestic harmony - as so often in these matters - might be better served by an outsider. Three hours passed quickly & easily (for me at least). But I recalled too clearly my own agonised initiation & the first lessons I received from Rolf, just in time to prevent me doing irreparable damage to my laptop. My bike has a distinct, intermittent wobble in the back wheel, like a runner whose gammy knee plays up unpredictably. I've been trying unsuccessfully to trace & cure the problem. Anyhow, I took it slowly in both directions, as I've been doing to work each day, & managed well enough (barring the theft of both my cycle lamps while bike was locked to the fence).
I went around to the bike shop this morning to see if they could trace the cause. We got to talking about the wobble & other attention the bike would soon need, & the cost of repairs - & about a super new bike that the shop owner would be able to offer me at an excellent price (& there'd be a good trade-in on the old one). Enough said.
19:07: You'll never believe it. Mid-afternoon Jones came back from a shopping expedition to say there'd been another accident on the corner. Two cars and a cyclist seemed to be involved. There were lots of flashing blue lights, and ambulance & two fire-appliances in attendance when I peered out. Moments later, there was a thunderous whirring & the helicopter ambulance came windmilling overhead & edged its way down on to the school playground. Pause for a minute....& three orange-clad paramedics (evidently from the chopper) cane panting down the street. Crowds clustered around.
I felt for the unfortunate, whoever he was but not so much as to ignore the drama. Every two minutes, a wailing siren would herald the next police car to arrive on the scene. Three of them came in quick succession to join the two already there. Next was a police motor-cyclist who also arrived, siren blaring, and promptly parked his bike so as to block the traffic (which, until then, had been squeezing past). Jones & I teetered on the edge of hysterical laughter. It was like watching telly, a very bad tragi-comedy. Later when I went to fetch my bike, I saw a Jaguar parked on the verge, its windscreen with an ominous dent. Policemen were still taking statements. Such is life.
Late afternoon, a computer technician (friend of a friend) arrived to see if he could sort out some of the memory problems. He gasped when he saw what poor Mr Viglen was expected to cope with by way of applications. The manufacturers seem to put everything together to a standard formula & expect the user to configure his computer personally to fit all the bits & pieces. That's fine for ye olde experte. But truly dangerous for ye newcomere to ye scene! I watched avidly. There was certainly a great deal more memory space available when he finished & the various tests he put the computer through indicated that all was in order. We hold thumbs.
I had earlier discovered one of the reasons for the intermittent wobblies Mr Viglen has been throwing. I kicked myself when I worked it out. I had transferred a whole lot of files on to Mr Viglen from Master Compaq, including some in a font (typeface) that was not programmed into Mr Viglen. He was able to call these files up on screen but not to print them. And every time I tried to print them, he went absolutely bonkers. No wonder! I won't tell you about the two hours I spent trying to sort out the BBC's latest Auntie communications package - except that I eventually did - the sheer joy of it!
Jones had meanwhile spent the afternoon fixing up the patio garden and I joined her for a sunset cocktail. Mavis was snoozing away on the neighbouring patio, snuggled down behind a windbreak on the warm black roof, his radar ears signalling that he was still taking in all the signals that mattered. I whispered sweet nothings across the patio to him. But he ignored them. He knows when humans are just full of nonsense.
Earlier in the week, would you believe it, I took a booking at the Beeb for a couple to stay at the Quinta for a fortnight in July at the same moment as Jones took another booking for another couple to occupy the same unit for exactly the same period. Horrors! The place is full. We are still trying to sort it out. What can you do?
There. You'll have had more than a flavour of our lives and sufficient unto the day. Love you all lots. Blessings ever. Thank you for your many letters and faxes
My dear folks,
I thought I had to write to you today as it's the first day of summer and this makes such a change in our lives as cannot be allowed to pass unremarked. For the first time this year, we opened the patio door and pinned it back against the wall and breathed in the garden airs that wafted up from the quilt of backyards below. It was warm enough to step outside without the comfort of a jersey. The patio itself looks badly in need of love and attention. Many of the hardier residents have survived winter's rigours but they are brown & straggly, gritty-eyed from their long hibernation. Jones has peered through the door several times in recent days, sighed loudly, & told herself that at the first opportunity she must get to work in it. No doubt she will - & will have it looking trim before her return to the Quinta in three weeks.
We breakfasted late - brunched - after I'd spent an hour in the flat below erecting two shelves for one of the occupants. The tenant does not hesitate to ask for such assistance and I don't mind giving it from time to time. Brunch was brown rolls & coffee, plus egg fried bread. Delicious! On the nutbag outside, three sparrows fussed & pecked & tried to shoulder each other off the best perch. Later, a blue tit arrived for lunch. They are so delicate & gorgeous (by London standards) that we freeze & watch in appreciative fascination. I don't mean to sound over the top. It's just that the tits are the very antithesis of our skybox inner-city existence, a hint of nature's treasure chest.
I as write, the crews of the Oxford and Cambridge boats are carrying their sculls down to the Thames for their annual clash. The ubiquitous camera focuses on their faces as their weight & history of each oarsman is traced. No doubt you will know the result long before my letter arrives. Jones spent a year at Cambridge & knows who she supports. I generally support the underdog which this year again is Oxford.
Yesterday, I cycled 30 minutes over to Islington to give a friend an introduction to the Windows programme. Her other half is a long-standing computer user but I thought that domestic harmony - as so often in these matters - might be better served by an outsider. Three hours passed quickly & easily (for me at least). But I recalled too clearly my own agonised initiation & the first lessons I received from Rolf, just in time to prevent me doing irreparable damage to my laptop. My bike has a distinct, intermittent wobble in the back wheel, like a runner whose gammy knee plays up unpredictably. I've been trying unsuccessfully to trace & cure the problem. Anyhow, I took it slowly in both directions, as I've been doing to work each day, & managed well enough (barring the theft of both my cycle lamps while bike was locked to the fence).
I went around to the bike shop this morning to see if they could trace the cause. We got to talking about the wobble & other attention the bike would soon need, & the cost of repairs - & about a super new bike that the shop owner would be able to offer me at an excellent price (& there'd be a good trade-in on the old one). Enough said.
19:07: You'll never believe it. Mid-afternoon Jones came back from a shopping expedition to say there'd been another accident on the corner. Two cars and a cyclist seemed to be involved. There were lots of flashing blue lights, and ambulance & two fire-appliances in attendance when I peered out. Moments later, there was a thunderous whirring & the helicopter ambulance came windmilling overhead & edged its way down on to the school playground. Pause for a minute....& three orange-clad paramedics (evidently from the chopper) cane panting down the street. Crowds clustered around.
I felt for the unfortunate, whoever he was but not so much as to ignore the drama. Every two minutes, a wailing siren would herald the next police car to arrive on the scene. Three of them came in quick succession to join the two already there. Next was a police motor-cyclist who also arrived, siren blaring, and promptly parked his bike so as to block the traffic (which, until then, had been squeezing past). Jones & I teetered on the edge of hysterical laughter. It was like watching telly, a very bad tragi-comedy. Later when I went to fetch my bike, I saw a Jaguar parked on the verge, its windscreen with an ominous dent. Policemen were still taking statements. Such is life.
Late afternoon, a computer technician (friend of a friend) arrived to see if he could sort out some of the memory problems. He gasped when he saw what poor Mr Viglen was expected to cope with by way of applications. The manufacturers seem to put everything together to a standard formula & expect the user to configure his computer personally to fit all the bits & pieces. That's fine for ye olde experte. But truly dangerous for ye newcomere to ye scene! I watched avidly. There was certainly a great deal more memory space available when he finished & the various tests he put the computer through indicated that all was in order. We hold thumbs.
I had earlier discovered one of the reasons for the intermittent wobblies Mr Viglen has been throwing. I kicked myself when I worked it out. I had transferred a whole lot of files on to Mr Viglen from Master Compaq, including some in a font (typeface) that was not programmed into Mr Viglen. He was able to call these files up on screen but not to print them. And every time I tried to print them, he went absolutely bonkers. No wonder! I won't tell you about the two hours I spent trying to sort out the BBC's latest Auntie communications package - except that I eventually did - the sheer joy of it!
Jones had meanwhile spent the afternoon fixing up the patio garden and I joined her for a sunset cocktail. Mavis was snoozing away on the neighbouring patio, snuggled down behind a windbreak on the warm black roof, his radar ears signalling that he was still taking in all the signals that mattered. I whispered sweet nothings across the patio to him. But he ignored them. He knows when humans are just full of nonsense.
Earlier in the week, would you believe it, I took a booking at the Beeb for a couple to stay at the Quinta for a fortnight in July at the same moment as Jones took another booking for another couple to occupy the same unit for exactly the same period. Horrors! The place is full. We are still trying to sort it out. What can you do?
There. You'll have had more than a flavour of our lives and sufficient unto the day. Love you all lots. Blessings ever. Thank you for your many letters and faxes
27March1995
T E & B J Benson
Flat 4, 90 Shirland Road, Maida Vale, London, W9 2EQ
Phone/Fax: 0171 - 2864592 E-Mail: t.benson@bbcnc.org.uk
27/03/95 Monday evening:
My dear folks,
I arose this morning to find coyly curled on my desk and awaiting my pleasure a scintillating fax from my brother in Calgary. And barely had I begun to read it to Jones than there came spilling out on its heels a sparkling fax from my sister in Neustadt. What a wealth of riches! I ask you how ever did we manage in the snail-mail days when such treasures lay solely in the gift of the postman? (Woe betide us if he was ill disposed or on strike!) Your correspondent in London (his reputation sorely challenged) was inspired to respond immediately on his return from work.
Tuesday morning early: Which is as far as he / I got. I had barely sat down when there came yet another phone enquiry about the Quinta. We have put a couple of ads in the BBC magazine & the phone has been busy of late. In fact, we were pretty full before placing the ad & the rest is filling up fast! Hallelujah! I had a word with the builder who said the doors were on MCP & the windows going in & Jones should be able to move in on her return although he will take the first 2 weeks of the month off. He needs to do another urgent job before returning to complete the patio & workshop.
Thence I had to rush down the road to return a deposit to some departing tenants & inspect the empty flat. The tenants were young & had been quite sweet...in fact, a bit too innocent for their own good. Luckily, they were blessed with the nicest landlord, for which they can be very grateful. What's more, the landlord found himself marching a mile down a darkening Maida Vale at the corner of a bookshelf, assisting two of the tenants to transfer it to their new address the slow way. This was beyond the call of duty, as the tenants gratefully observed. But since they (guy & girl) were otherwise in danger of collapsing on the pavement, my heart went out to them.
Back to supper, more phone calls &, I must confess, two hours battling with the latest facility from Auntie (my service provider to the Internet), software which I had managed to download & which will allow me infinitely superior communication with Auntie if only I can get it to work. I found in downloading the programme, in trying to decompress it & setting it up that I was working constantly on the grey edges of my competence....much frustration relieved by some bursts of creative satisfaction.
I joined friends last Saturday at Twickenham to watch their 14 year old son represent his school in the national U/15 school rugby finals - his team having enjoyed great success. Little wonder. Its members were talented, highly organised & HUGE. They had swept a succession of other teams aside & I felt for the much smaller opposition who trotted out on to the field to face them. The poor lads were duly steam-rollered, a process that pleased the parents sitting around me no end. By that's by the by.
The parent, Julian, is in the process of introducing email to his office & his home. He reckons the facility will save the firm a six-figure sum annually, not to be sneezed at. But he was having difficulty getting his personal email facility to work. I gave him such advice as I could. Last night, I checked my messages to find a jubilant first communication from him. I sent a congratulatory response.
What's more, I can transfer him to my slowly growing list of E-Mail correspondents (a role my otherwise cyberfreakish Canadian brother is fiercely resisting, to my distress!). Since email letters are blissfully easy to send & travel for a fraction of penny (instead of 50p for air mail & more for faxes, it's a saving I'm keen to make.)
I awoke to hear the last presentations in the Oscars, best actor (Tom Hanks) & best director & film, all to Forest Gump. I knew it was highly tipped & haven't yet seen it, so I will withhold judgement until I have. (But I'm suspicious, having found the equally feted Philadelphia - in which Hanks took last year's Oscar as well - full of snivelling sentiment...a fine example of snot & trane in which I suspect the politically correct lesson on the tragedy of Aids took the prizes. What's more, we have seen two of the other nominations, Pulp Fiction & Quiz Show - and were highly impressed by both. I fear the schmaltz has it! Must see it this weekend regardless.)
The national weather map is whiter than a ghost. We are due for a day of snow storms turning to rain this evening. Since I have to cycle to the dentist shortly & then to work, I am not pleased. I think of TS Eliot's warning that April is the cruellest month (I know it's still March) a line I understood only after coming to live in England.
I shall hurry to get these paragraphs off to my faxables before the pumpkin hour of 8 a.m. when day prices apply. Let me recount two trivial tales. I went around to other tenants a few days ago to try to fix a problematic bathroom extractor fan. I carefully unscrewed the holding bolt and set it down on the end of the bath furthest from the plug. Then I got to work. The poor fan was stuffed with 10 years of dust. Having cleaned it thorough, I put the cover down on the edge of the basin. There it tottered - before toppling on to the rim of the bath where it tickled the nut - which dribbled down the length of the bath and vanished down the plughole. (I had to dismantle the bloody bath and trap to get it back. What a pain!)
The finger of fate descended on Mavis in equally unexpected fashion. I was bending over to give him the customary stroking prior to putting down his dinner for his enjoyment. He hardly knows whether the stroking on the anticipation is more pleasurable. I leaned further for a final "love you lots Fatty in spite of your numerous sins" head-scratch when my wallet dived out of my waistcoat pocket & thumped him on the head. More confused than bruised! He didn't know what he'd done wrong.
There let me sign off. Thanks again for your letters. (Thank you Cathy for your note which has just rolled through. Tell Erica that Onkel will come storming over there if any cheeky German youth so much as thinks of attracting his niece's attention!!)
Much love,
T
28.03.95
Tuesday evening. The weatherman was dead right. I got sleeted on all the way from the dentist to the Beeb, a good 30 minutes during which I again gave thanks for Nakiska Gold and double-knitted gloves. I slopped into the newsroom like the abominable snowman. Then I got pissed on all the way home again, raincoat draped over my knees to deter the worst of it. My only consolation was to peer into the windows of the smart cars snarled up along the way, a peek into the private worlds of luxury going nowhere. I wondered if my experiences were bringing me any nearer to the common man. Or was I the common man? We philosophers have a dreadfully difficult time of it.
Canadians, we're on your side in the fish wars. In fact, British fishermen, enraged that the European Union has allowed the Spanish to fish in the so-called Irish Box, are hoping the Canadians will ram all the Spanish trawlers & sink them. Funny old world.
Blessings ever !
Flat 4, 90 Shirland Road, Maida Vale, London, W9 2EQ
Phone/Fax: 0171 - 2864592 E-Mail: t.benson@bbcnc.org.uk
27/03/95 Monday evening:
My dear folks,
I arose this morning to find coyly curled on my desk and awaiting my pleasure a scintillating fax from my brother in Calgary. And barely had I begun to read it to Jones than there came spilling out on its heels a sparkling fax from my sister in Neustadt. What a wealth of riches! I ask you how ever did we manage in the snail-mail days when such treasures lay solely in the gift of the postman? (Woe betide us if he was ill disposed or on strike!) Your correspondent in London (his reputation sorely challenged) was inspired to respond immediately on his return from work.
Tuesday morning early: Which is as far as he / I got. I had barely sat down when there came yet another phone enquiry about the Quinta. We have put a couple of ads in the BBC magazine & the phone has been busy of late. In fact, we were pretty full before placing the ad & the rest is filling up fast! Hallelujah! I had a word with the builder who said the doors were on MCP & the windows going in & Jones should be able to move in on her return although he will take the first 2 weeks of the month off. He needs to do another urgent job before returning to complete the patio & workshop.
Thence I had to rush down the road to return a deposit to some departing tenants & inspect the empty flat. The tenants were young & had been quite sweet...in fact, a bit too innocent for their own good. Luckily, they were blessed with the nicest landlord, for which they can be very grateful. What's more, the landlord found himself marching a mile down a darkening Maida Vale at the corner of a bookshelf, assisting two of the tenants to transfer it to their new address the slow way. This was beyond the call of duty, as the tenants gratefully observed. But since they (guy & girl) were otherwise in danger of collapsing on the pavement, my heart went out to them.
Back to supper, more phone calls &, I must confess, two hours battling with the latest facility from Auntie (my service provider to the Internet), software which I had managed to download & which will allow me infinitely superior communication with Auntie if only I can get it to work. I found in downloading the programme, in trying to decompress it & setting it up that I was working constantly on the grey edges of my competence....much frustration relieved by some bursts of creative satisfaction.
I joined friends last Saturday at Twickenham to watch their 14 year old son represent his school in the national U/15 school rugby finals - his team having enjoyed great success. Little wonder. Its members were talented, highly organised & HUGE. They had swept a succession of other teams aside & I felt for the much smaller opposition who trotted out on to the field to face them. The poor lads were duly steam-rollered, a process that pleased the parents sitting around me no end. By that's by the by.
The parent, Julian, is in the process of introducing email to his office & his home. He reckons the facility will save the firm a six-figure sum annually, not to be sneezed at. But he was having difficulty getting his personal email facility to work. I gave him such advice as I could. Last night, I checked my messages to find a jubilant first communication from him. I sent a congratulatory response.
What's more, I can transfer him to my slowly growing list of E-Mail correspondents (a role my otherwise cyberfreakish Canadian brother is fiercely resisting, to my distress!). Since email letters are blissfully easy to send & travel for a fraction of penny (instead of 50p for air mail & more for faxes, it's a saving I'm keen to make.)
I awoke to hear the last presentations in the Oscars, best actor (Tom Hanks) & best director & film, all to Forest Gump. I knew it was highly tipped & haven't yet seen it, so I will withhold judgement until I have. (But I'm suspicious, having found the equally feted Philadelphia - in which Hanks took last year's Oscar as well - full of snivelling sentiment...a fine example of snot & trane in which I suspect the politically correct lesson on the tragedy of Aids took the prizes. What's more, we have seen two of the other nominations, Pulp Fiction & Quiz Show - and were highly impressed by both. I fear the schmaltz has it! Must see it this weekend regardless.)
The national weather map is whiter than a ghost. We are due for a day of snow storms turning to rain this evening. Since I have to cycle to the dentist shortly & then to work, I am not pleased. I think of TS Eliot's warning that April is the cruellest month (I know it's still March) a line I understood only after coming to live in England.
I shall hurry to get these paragraphs off to my faxables before the pumpkin hour of 8 a.m. when day prices apply. Let me recount two trivial tales. I went around to other tenants a few days ago to try to fix a problematic bathroom extractor fan. I carefully unscrewed the holding bolt and set it down on the end of the bath furthest from the plug. Then I got to work. The poor fan was stuffed with 10 years of dust. Having cleaned it thorough, I put the cover down on the edge of the basin. There it tottered - before toppling on to the rim of the bath where it tickled the nut - which dribbled down the length of the bath and vanished down the plughole. (I had to dismantle the bloody bath and trap to get it back. What a pain!)
The finger of fate descended on Mavis in equally unexpected fashion. I was bending over to give him the customary stroking prior to putting down his dinner for his enjoyment. He hardly knows whether the stroking on the anticipation is more pleasurable. I leaned further for a final "love you lots Fatty in spite of your numerous sins" head-scratch when my wallet dived out of my waistcoat pocket & thumped him on the head. More confused than bruised! He didn't know what he'd done wrong.
There let me sign off. Thanks again for your letters. (Thank you Cathy for your note which has just rolled through. Tell Erica that Onkel will come storming over there if any cheeky German youth so much as thinks of attracting his niece's attention!!)
Much love,
T
28.03.95
Tuesday evening. The weatherman was dead right. I got sleeted on all the way from the dentist to the Beeb, a good 30 minutes during which I again gave thanks for Nakiska Gold and double-knitted gloves. I slopped into the newsroom like the abominable snowman. Then I got pissed on all the way home again, raincoat draped over my knees to deter the worst of it. My only consolation was to peer into the windows of the smart cars snarled up along the way, a peek into the private worlds of luxury going nowhere. I wondered if my experiences were bringing me any nearer to the common man. Or was I the common man? We philosophers have a dreadfully difficult time of it.
Canadians, we're on your side in the fish wars. In fact, British fishermen, enraged that the European Union has allowed the Spanish to fish in the so-called Irish Box, are hoping the Canadians will ram all the Spanish trawlers & sink them. Funny old world.
Blessings ever !
10March1995
London & Portugal: 7 March 1995
My dear folks,
This is the 2nd part of our holiday report, on the Alentejo:
07/03 Tuesday. Lovely & clear - but cold. We rose early to be on the road by 09:00. Dogueno was the name of the tiny hamlet on the hills overlooking the vast Alentejan plains where we stopped for coffee & toast. The barman & his wife shared the task. We got talking about life in Dogueno (quietish) & the excellence of the toast. This, the wife explained, was because the bread was made next-door & she took us over to show us. The baker was preparing the fire while his wife scooped out dollops of dough from a huge bowl. We watched in fascination, expressed our thanks at their hospitality, bought a loaf & pressed on.
Our next stop was the fortified village of Evoramonte, perched on a hilltop 1000 ft above the plain & crowned with a stout castle. The village was named after the Eborones, people who had occupied the area 2,000 years before the Romans arrived & fortified the hilltop. We picnicked beside the keep, looking down on the world & eating inch-thick slices of the still-warm bread covered in home-made lemon-curd. Then we explored the castle, ascending spiralling stone stairs to the roof where generations of sentinels watched the horizon for invading armies. It would have been easy to leap from the battlements to a quick death below. The Portuguese do not believe in wasting money erecting hindrances to the suicidal.
The walled town of Estremoz is easily visible from Evoramonte. We drove through the vast gate/tunnel entrance & found parking in the sprawling central square. Jones had found an English guide- book to the region, an immensely useful compilation whose author's views largely matched our own. Estremoz's wealth is its history. The old town is dominated by a church & former convent, the latter now one of the luxury hotels (known as pousadas). We stopped at ancient shop (recommended in our book) selling carpets & tapestries (& copies of our book???). After careful examination of their wares - for we liked everything - we selected a brick & fawn rug to hang on the walls of MCP & point up the brickwork around the old oven.
Thence to our stop for the next two days, a house in the midst of green fields where we met the occupiers - 4 ducks, 2 fowls, Rufus (big Alentejan dog - echoes of the Pyrenean & St Bernard) Monty & Mimosa (confident, inquisitive grey cats) Antonia (young daughter) & Margarida (proprietor). We tramped fields as the sun set in spectacular fashion - then supped outside - on bread, wine cheese & spicy sausage.
03/08 Wednesday dawned grey & cloudy. We breakfasted on Margarida Gil's toast & marmalade, very good. Thence to Evora, an hour away. The city is old, one of the first sites in Europe to shows signs of human habitation. Within the high walls, the Temple of Diana, now mainly a collection of columns, dates back to the 3rd C. The walls are Roman, Moorish and Portuguese. The streets are narrow, pavements largely non-existent. Parking is a problem. The city is full of churches & convents (many of them "ex") & museums. It's a university town too & there are lots of students everywhere, mainly female, for some reason.
It is also a city with a large barracks and lots of soldiers, some hanging over the fence staring at the girls. Portugal still has conscription. In front of the barracks, a single guard prances about in a white helmet-cum-sombrero. He clumps around stiff-kneed & pile-bottomed like a man trying to avoid great cowpats - or intent on taking the piss out of the Portuguese army. But various officers exchanged salutes without arresting him or standing him up against a wall. So, presumably, the galumphing is official.
We visited more churches than you want to know about. But one is unforgettable, the Chapel of the Bones, housed in one of the cathedrals. It was constructed in the 1400s by a monk who wished to concentrate attention on human mortality. The walls & pillars are lined entirely with skulls and bones, the skeletons of some 5000 people. It's an astonishing & morbid sight.
To inspire further contemplation, there are the mouldering corpses of a father & child, according to legend, cursed by their dying wife/mother. Over the entrance to the chapel are the words: We who are here are waiting for you to join us. We walked Evora until our knees ached and our minds blurred; then we got lost trying to leave. Sympathetic policemen, impressed to find estrangeiros with a grasp of their language, directed us out.
Jones, who went everywhere with 2 guide-books to direct our steps, thought that on our way home we might visit some ancient standing-stones a few miles west of the city, one of the numerous cromeleques to be found in the country. According to the books, they date back 5000 years. They hove into sight, surrounded by plantations of olives. We tried to absorb the scene, 95 stones, some 2m tall, covered in lichen & standing to attention. Who, we wondered, had planted them, & why. What did they look like, how did they dress & speak? My theory, I confided to Jones, is that Neanderthals one day decided to confuse future generations by piling up a collection of meaningless rocks. They must be laughing still.
For supper, we supped at a tasca (tavern) in Estremoz lined with large terracotta barrels. Its value-for-money fare had become the stuff of guidebooks. We took a table in the cellar with a good view of the inevitable TV set. The news was on. Portuguese TV news is a circus, but that's another story. The food was good, the wines outstanding, the company cosmopolitan. On the way home we got lost again. But we thought it a small price to pay for the experience.
For the second night, Rufus drove me to distraction by barking his frustration to the stars till well after midnight. When driven beyond endurance, I filled a wine bottle with water & shook it over the beast who yelped in discomfort before barking all the more. In the morning, I found something bland to write in the visitors' book - we wouldn't be going back again.
Our guide book informed us of the existence of a small plum preserve factory (the famous plums of Elvas, ameixas de Elvas) at the edge of the town. The road was closed for repairs, so we walked. At the gates the usual burglar alarm yapped furiously. But two women, the sole occupants, hurried to welcome us. The interior was lined with shelves holding hundreds of plastic bowls filled with soaking plums. Terracotta bowls which had once done the job were being sold. Jones promptly grabbed one. I selected a box of plum preserves and plum jam (both expensive, but - the book assured us - extra special) and we retraced our steps. (We tried the preserves at a celebration dinner later; they were good but nothing to rave about!)
On to the wine centre of Borba (from barbels, fish which decorate the town's coat of arms). The area is full of marble quarries and rubble mountains. Huge flatbed trucks rumble past, each carrying three massive chunks of marble. Houses are fronted with marble, benches & bollards made of marble, pavements surfaced with marble chips & roads lined with marble. We came to understand why marble is so common in Portugal. After touring a gypsy market (more dark-hued mothers suckling babes and flogging garments), we pressed on to adegas (wine co-ops) where we bought a selection. The reds are better known - crimson, full & fruity. Then we raided a big supermarket and pressed on to our destination, a remote goat farm on the Guadiana River which marks the Spanish border.
We found it at the end of a very bumpy 3 km track. Two big Rhodesian ridgebacks gave us a hearty welcome. So did Neville, the farmer, & Eileen his wife (young daughter, Rebecca, and babe, Jodie, in tow). She led us the final km to the little cottage overlooking the river & the Spanish farmsteads on the far side. Truly, this a special pace, reminiscent of Africa's game reserves. Goats & long-horned cattle wander about - so do wild pigs, although we saw none.
On the broad river below, cormorants, storks & egrets fish for a living. Huge terrapins make slow-motion love on rocks (genuine!) Flashing kingfishers dive from the branches. A robin hops around the patio. Swallows swoop about the house. Rabbits - hundreds of them - scamper across the road as one approaches. For an hour, we sat on a log-seat near the cottage & surveyed the scene below. For supper, I braaied kebabs & turkey steaks.
10/03 Friday: Rain looked likely. We set out for the recommended castle town of Monseraz on the Spanish border but lost our way in the maze of unmarked back roads & villages. In spite of getting frequent (sometimes contradictory) directions from the locals, we went astray. We slowed down several times for sheep being herded along the road by shepherds who were the stuff of legend. They wear sheepskin coats, short in front but long behind, to allow them to sit in comfort. We also passed a party of gypsies, riding on gaily-painted, horse-drawn carts. The men dress entirely in black & wear fierce, bushy beards. Additional horses trot alongside. Attached to the axle by a short length of rope or wire is a dog which runs beneath the cart. It's a case of run or die. Those we saw were running happily enough.
Jones had noted a restaurant in her guide book, & we found our way there. It was closed - a great disappointment to my beloved who had decided that it should be the culinary high point of our visit. Instead, we drove on to the next town where 2 more restaurants were recommended. The first we found was open & excellent. What a feast, first of little delicacies (petiscos, one of which I failed to recognise) - then of generous main courses. It was close to 4 p.m. before I called for the bill which, as so often, seemed to have more entries than I could account for. So, in friendly fashion, I asked the restaurateur to run through it. This he did, mentioning in passing pigs' ears starters (that had mystified us. I had spat out the only one I tried. Jones, always more adventurous in such matters, had consumed several). Anyhow, the bill was in order & what we hadn't managed to eat, we took away for later consumption. It was pouring outside, huge drops that exploded in water bombs.
Next to Alendroal, a wide-avenued little town spread out beneath its castle & keep. Jones wanted to rescue a piece of marble from a tip to take back with her. But the rain & mud discouraged her.
I stopped at a quarry to check on retail sales. Vast saws were slicing panels from blocks of marble. Marble panels of every size were stacked halfway to the horizon. Retail sales were possible but problematic. On to the next quarry! Here I met a gentleman from the Algarve who was only too pleased to show me what was available. We emerged from the warehouse with two boxes of marble tiles for MCP's bathroom floor. Jones was pleased; she was even happier when we later found a tiny tip & rescued her own little piece - for a cheese board, she says. The farmer joined us in the evening for some conversation & red wine. He told us horror tales about the hunters who had invaded his farm for years until he had managed to have it declared a reserve. The Portuguese, like other Mediterraneans, are crazy about hunting & spend several months a year shooting everything that moves. They're a curse!
11/03 Saturday, this time we found our way to the village of Monseraz which loomed up from the Alentejan plain - just as the guidebook said - like a castellated mountain. It's a jewel, a tiny town contained in high stone walls which have seen centuries of bloody history acted out around them. The streets were made entirely of the local slate, laid vertically. The walls were built of the same stone, set horizontally. Two streets ran the length of the town; half a dozen cut across it. The houses were painted in identical white. Children played irreverent football on the broad patio outside the main church - full of dusty, gilded saints, hands clasped, heads crowned with silver halos. We made our way up steep, cramped steps to the roof of the tower overlooking the village & a dozen other towns. Immediately below was the bullring, now used for an annual festival of singing (although bullfighting remains a big local feature. The Portuguese tease rather than torment the bull and do not kill it)
We lunched in nearby Mourao in the Adega Velha (the Old Taverna), under an ancient arched roof & surrounded by 8ft high terracotta vats from which our host tapped jars of red & white wine - both very good. As on the previous day, I imposed upon my host to be allowed to recharge my computer notebook's batteries. Our cottage overlooking the Guadiana is a darling, but lacks electricity. Indeed, the main farmhouse runs a generator only for a couple of hours at night. Apart from that, it's candle or gaslamp. We got lost again going home. We filled our glasses with the last of the 12-year old whisky and crept to our look-out point to watch the evening fall.
12/03 Sunday we came home, reluctantly. Jones spent a full hour restoring the cottage to a state of spit & polish. I did my share. We dropped the keys off at the farmhouse, where we bought several bottles of marmalade & honey. A large heifer grazed on the lawn, a few metres from little Rebecca & tiny Jodie. They were clearly used to each other. We had proceeded with great caution, treating heifers (beefy, long-horned characters) with great respect. The goats presented no threat, moving about the farm as if they knew exactly where they had to be each hour. I saw one up on our gatepost, balancing on his back legs, trying to chew the leaves off a tree.
The Quinta lay warming itself in the sun. The flowers looked wonderful after rain; our guests were well. I set about painting the interior of MCP. Jones plunged back into her garden. At dusk she brought me a macieira & coke, a restorative elixir of wonderful potency. We showered in the fierce hot water produced by the solar heater in the balmy March weather. England would not know the likes for months. Then Jones produced a chickeny supper that looked vaguely like the remains of the remains of the chicken we'd first feasted on two days earlier (Jones is not one to throw things away) but it tasted pretty good.
My dear folks,
This is the 2nd part of our holiday report, on the Alentejo:
07/03 Tuesday. Lovely & clear - but cold. We rose early to be on the road by 09:00. Dogueno was the name of the tiny hamlet on the hills overlooking the vast Alentejan plains where we stopped for coffee & toast. The barman & his wife shared the task. We got talking about life in Dogueno (quietish) & the excellence of the toast. This, the wife explained, was because the bread was made next-door & she took us over to show us. The baker was preparing the fire while his wife scooped out dollops of dough from a huge bowl. We watched in fascination, expressed our thanks at their hospitality, bought a loaf & pressed on.
Our next stop was the fortified village of Evoramonte, perched on a hilltop 1000 ft above the plain & crowned with a stout castle. The village was named after the Eborones, people who had occupied the area 2,000 years before the Romans arrived & fortified the hilltop. We picnicked beside the keep, looking down on the world & eating inch-thick slices of the still-warm bread covered in home-made lemon-curd. Then we explored the castle, ascending spiralling stone stairs to the roof where generations of sentinels watched the horizon for invading armies. It would have been easy to leap from the battlements to a quick death below. The Portuguese do not believe in wasting money erecting hindrances to the suicidal.
The walled town of Estremoz is easily visible from Evoramonte. We drove through the vast gate/tunnel entrance & found parking in the sprawling central square. Jones had found an English guide- book to the region, an immensely useful compilation whose author's views largely matched our own. Estremoz's wealth is its history. The old town is dominated by a church & former convent, the latter now one of the luxury hotels (known as pousadas). We stopped at ancient shop (recommended in our book) selling carpets & tapestries (& copies of our book???). After careful examination of their wares - for we liked everything - we selected a brick & fawn rug to hang on the walls of MCP & point up the brickwork around the old oven.
Thence to our stop for the next two days, a house in the midst of green fields where we met the occupiers - 4 ducks, 2 fowls, Rufus (big Alentejan dog - echoes of the Pyrenean & St Bernard) Monty & Mimosa (confident, inquisitive grey cats) Antonia (young daughter) & Margarida (proprietor). We tramped fields as the sun set in spectacular fashion - then supped outside - on bread, wine cheese & spicy sausage.
03/08 Wednesday dawned grey & cloudy. We breakfasted on Margarida Gil's toast & marmalade, very good. Thence to Evora, an hour away. The city is old, one of the first sites in Europe to shows signs of human habitation. Within the high walls, the Temple of Diana, now mainly a collection of columns, dates back to the 3rd C. The walls are Roman, Moorish and Portuguese. The streets are narrow, pavements largely non-existent. Parking is a problem. The city is full of churches & convents (many of them "ex") & museums. It's a university town too & there are lots of students everywhere, mainly female, for some reason.
It is also a city with a large barracks and lots of soldiers, some hanging over the fence staring at the girls. Portugal still has conscription. In front of the barracks, a single guard prances about in a white helmet-cum-sombrero. He clumps around stiff-kneed & pile-bottomed like a man trying to avoid great cowpats - or intent on taking the piss out of the Portuguese army. But various officers exchanged salutes without arresting him or standing him up against a wall. So, presumably, the galumphing is official.
We visited more churches than you want to know about. But one is unforgettable, the Chapel of the Bones, housed in one of the cathedrals. It was constructed in the 1400s by a monk who wished to concentrate attention on human mortality. The walls & pillars are lined entirely with skulls and bones, the skeletons of some 5000 people. It's an astonishing & morbid sight.
To inspire further contemplation, there are the mouldering corpses of a father & child, according to legend, cursed by their dying wife/mother. Over the entrance to the chapel are the words: We who are here are waiting for you to join us. We walked Evora until our knees ached and our minds blurred; then we got lost trying to leave. Sympathetic policemen, impressed to find estrangeiros with a grasp of their language, directed us out.
Jones, who went everywhere with 2 guide-books to direct our steps, thought that on our way home we might visit some ancient standing-stones a few miles west of the city, one of the numerous cromeleques to be found in the country. According to the books, they date back 5000 years. They hove into sight, surrounded by plantations of olives. We tried to absorb the scene, 95 stones, some 2m tall, covered in lichen & standing to attention. Who, we wondered, had planted them, & why. What did they look like, how did they dress & speak? My theory, I confided to Jones, is that Neanderthals one day decided to confuse future generations by piling up a collection of meaningless rocks. They must be laughing still.
For supper, we supped at a tasca (tavern) in Estremoz lined with large terracotta barrels. Its value-for-money fare had become the stuff of guidebooks. We took a table in the cellar with a good view of the inevitable TV set. The news was on. Portuguese TV news is a circus, but that's another story. The food was good, the wines outstanding, the company cosmopolitan. On the way home we got lost again. But we thought it a small price to pay for the experience.
For the second night, Rufus drove me to distraction by barking his frustration to the stars till well after midnight. When driven beyond endurance, I filled a wine bottle with water & shook it over the beast who yelped in discomfort before barking all the more. In the morning, I found something bland to write in the visitors' book - we wouldn't be going back again.
Our guide book informed us of the existence of a small plum preserve factory (the famous plums of Elvas, ameixas de Elvas) at the edge of the town. The road was closed for repairs, so we walked. At the gates the usual burglar alarm yapped furiously. But two women, the sole occupants, hurried to welcome us. The interior was lined with shelves holding hundreds of plastic bowls filled with soaking plums. Terracotta bowls which had once done the job were being sold. Jones promptly grabbed one. I selected a box of plum preserves and plum jam (both expensive, but - the book assured us - extra special) and we retraced our steps. (We tried the preserves at a celebration dinner later; they were good but nothing to rave about!)
On to the wine centre of Borba (from barbels, fish which decorate the town's coat of arms). The area is full of marble quarries and rubble mountains. Huge flatbed trucks rumble past, each carrying three massive chunks of marble. Houses are fronted with marble, benches & bollards made of marble, pavements surfaced with marble chips & roads lined with marble. We came to understand why marble is so common in Portugal. After touring a gypsy market (more dark-hued mothers suckling babes and flogging garments), we pressed on to adegas (wine co-ops) where we bought a selection. The reds are better known - crimson, full & fruity. Then we raided a big supermarket and pressed on to our destination, a remote goat farm on the Guadiana River which marks the Spanish border.
We found it at the end of a very bumpy 3 km track. Two big Rhodesian ridgebacks gave us a hearty welcome. So did Neville, the farmer, & Eileen his wife (young daughter, Rebecca, and babe, Jodie, in tow). She led us the final km to the little cottage overlooking the river & the Spanish farmsteads on the far side. Truly, this a special pace, reminiscent of Africa's game reserves. Goats & long-horned cattle wander about - so do wild pigs, although we saw none.
On the broad river below, cormorants, storks & egrets fish for a living. Huge terrapins make slow-motion love on rocks (genuine!) Flashing kingfishers dive from the branches. A robin hops around the patio. Swallows swoop about the house. Rabbits - hundreds of them - scamper across the road as one approaches. For an hour, we sat on a log-seat near the cottage & surveyed the scene below. For supper, I braaied kebabs & turkey steaks.
10/03 Friday: Rain looked likely. We set out for the recommended castle town of Monseraz on the Spanish border but lost our way in the maze of unmarked back roads & villages. In spite of getting frequent (sometimes contradictory) directions from the locals, we went astray. We slowed down several times for sheep being herded along the road by shepherds who were the stuff of legend. They wear sheepskin coats, short in front but long behind, to allow them to sit in comfort. We also passed a party of gypsies, riding on gaily-painted, horse-drawn carts. The men dress entirely in black & wear fierce, bushy beards. Additional horses trot alongside. Attached to the axle by a short length of rope or wire is a dog which runs beneath the cart. It's a case of run or die. Those we saw were running happily enough.
Jones had noted a restaurant in her guide book, & we found our way there. It was closed - a great disappointment to my beloved who had decided that it should be the culinary high point of our visit. Instead, we drove on to the next town where 2 more restaurants were recommended. The first we found was open & excellent. What a feast, first of little delicacies (petiscos, one of which I failed to recognise) - then of generous main courses. It was close to 4 p.m. before I called for the bill which, as so often, seemed to have more entries than I could account for. So, in friendly fashion, I asked the restaurateur to run through it. This he did, mentioning in passing pigs' ears starters (that had mystified us. I had spat out the only one I tried. Jones, always more adventurous in such matters, had consumed several). Anyhow, the bill was in order & what we hadn't managed to eat, we took away for later consumption. It was pouring outside, huge drops that exploded in water bombs.
Next to Alendroal, a wide-avenued little town spread out beneath its castle & keep. Jones wanted to rescue a piece of marble from a tip to take back with her. But the rain & mud discouraged her.
I stopped at a quarry to check on retail sales. Vast saws were slicing panels from blocks of marble. Marble panels of every size were stacked halfway to the horizon. Retail sales were possible but problematic. On to the next quarry! Here I met a gentleman from the Algarve who was only too pleased to show me what was available. We emerged from the warehouse with two boxes of marble tiles for MCP's bathroom floor. Jones was pleased; she was even happier when we later found a tiny tip & rescued her own little piece - for a cheese board, she says. The farmer joined us in the evening for some conversation & red wine. He told us horror tales about the hunters who had invaded his farm for years until he had managed to have it declared a reserve. The Portuguese, like other Mediterraneans, are crazy about hunting & spend several months a year shooting everything that moves. They're a curse!
11/03 Saturday, this time we found our way to the village of Monseraz which loomed up from the Alentejan plain - just as the guidebook said - like a castellated mountain. It's a jewel, a tiny town contained in high stone walls which have seen centuries of bloody history acted out around them. The streets were made entirely of the local slate, laid vertically. The walls were built of the same stone, set horizontally. Two streets ran the length of the town; half a dozen cut across it. The houses were painted in identical white. Children played irreverent football on the broad patio outside the main church - full of dusty, gilded saints, hands clasped, heads crowned with silver halos. We made our way up steep, cramped steps to the roof of the tower overlooking the village & a dozen other towns. Immediately below was the bullring, now used for an annual festival of singing (although bullfighting remains a big local feature. The Portuguese tease rather than torment the bull and do not kill it)
We lunched in nearby Mourao in the Adega Velha (the Old Taverna), under an ancient arched roof & surrounded by 8ft high terracotta vats from which our host tapped jars of red & white wine - both very good. As on the previous day, I imposed upon my host to be allowed to recharge my computer notebook's batteries. Our cottage overlooking the Guadiana is a darling, but lacks electricity. Indeed, the main farmhouse runs a generator only for a couple of hours at night. Apart from that, it's candle or gaslamp. We got lost again going home. We filled our glasses with the last of the 12-year old whisky and crept to our look-out point to watch the evening fall.
12/03 Sunday we came home, reluctantly. Jones spent a full hour restoring the cottage to a state of spit & polish. I did my share. We dropped the keys off at the farmhouse, where we bought several bottles of marmalade & honey. A large heifer grazed on the lawn, a few metres from little Rebecca & tiny Jodie. They were clearly used to each other. We had proceeded with great caution, treating heifers (beefy, long-horned characters) with great respect. The goats presented no threat, moving about the farm as if they knew exactly where they had to be each hour. I saw one up on our gatepost, balancing on his back legs, trying to chew the leaves off a tree.
The Quinta lay warming itself in the sun. The flowers looked wonderful after rain; our guests were well. I set about painting the interior of MCP. Jones plunged back into her garden. At dusk she brought me a macieira & coke, a restorative elixir of wonderful potency. We showered in the fierce hot water produced by the solar heater in the balmy March weather. England would not know the likes for months. Then Jones produced a chickeny supper that looked vaguely like the remains of the remains of the chicken we'd first feasted on two days earlier (Jones is not one to throw things away) but it tasted pretty good.
4March1995
London: 4 March 1995
My dear folks,
When a helicopter comes whirring over your roof at spitting distance, with a pilot peering down through an open door, you know that something out of the usual is happening. From every window neighbours hung out as the craft dropped down on to the adjoining school field. Barbara remarked on the wailing police sirens that had shattered the morning and wondered if they and the helicopter were connected with the looming England-Scotland rugby final. But it was only later, after the helicopter had thundered up and over, that I gathered from a neighbour details of the drama of the week, played out on my very doorstep.
A thief had apparently nicked a whole bunch of tools from the back of a carpenter's van parked right outside our flat. The carpenter emerged to catch the thief in the act and leapt on to the rear of the thief's departing car. This rocketed 100 yards up the street before colliding with the traffic lights, crumpling the car, crippling the thief & bruising the carpenter. The thief had to be cut free and it was he, it seems, who was flown to hospital - a great waste of taxpayers' money if ever there was. I could see the corner area seething with blue lights & cops but I confess that I missed the drama. Good thing that I don't work in local news.
I was working away in my study at the time, catching up on dozens of items that required attention. Such is the penalty one pays for a two-week absence in Portugal. On the plus side, we found a stack of faxes & letters awaiting us. I can hardly tell you how much pleasure they brought. I do hope that you may feel the same away about the following account of our holiday which, as usual, is almost as much of a diary as a letter - possibly for the book I may write one day (on top of Benson's Bedside God-Book & How to Avoid Becoming a Celebrity). The letter comes in 2 parts, The Quinta and The Holiday. First to: The Quinta:
03/03. Friday: To Portugal. Jones was at the airport. It was overcast, pleasantly so after the blizzards across England. The Quintassential garden was green. The succulents, normally so restrained, were bursting with red & yellow flowers. Just love them. We joined the Geoff & John, the builders (aka the boys) for drinks around the new fireplace in the corner of MCP's kitchen. Although the windows & doors are still missing, the fire threw out a cheery warmth. Jones is thrilled. Staying warm is one of her great challenges in life. The kitchen is all but complete. G & J have picked out the ancient bread-oven in a brick surround that looks splendid. The sink is a stone bowl, one of those we found on site. MCP is delightful, a Hansel and Gretel product of circumstances that no architect could have designed. It ought to be habitable in April, although it will be May before the patio & workshop are completed.
Jones decided that a gathering of the European Community over snacks and drinks would be the best way to mark my arrival. John & Olive came from 7th Heaven; Gunther & Hildegard from Principio, & Bob (pronounced Burb) & Marie-Christine from the Lemon Quintet. We crowded into the Carob Quintet; the evenings are still sharp.
Whisky was the flavour of the hour, the 12-year old I had bought on the plane finding special favour. We were something between a convivial Tower of Babel & the European Parliament. Barbara was the translator, switching between her natural English, good French, inadvertent Portuguese & excruciating German until she tied her into a linguistic knot. Yet we all seemed to understand one another remarkably well & the occasion was pronounced a decided success.
Thence the English speakers proceeded down the dirt track to Paixanito where we joined the local Brits for their Friday dinner outing. I noted with some alarm the extent to which one of our company, who has Alzheimers, had deteriorated. Her husband, though elderly, is in good shape & excellent company. She has retreated into a world of her own, except that she remains very fond of her food and makes loud impatient demands for it, (especially for bananas of which the restaurant keeps a supply handy). Although the group has been meeting there for years & knows her well, her behaviour is beginning to mar the gathering.
04/03. Saturday: we walked down through the hills to Loule for toast & coffee & exercise. Jones was still wearing a thick red coat. I needed a jersey and jacket. Some of the tourists in town were determined that it should be summer, though, and paraded in shorts and t-shirts. The Saturday outdoor market was short of people. A beautiful gypsy girl, still in her teens, looked up from the large infant she was suckling to assure us that her items were very good, very cheap. We bought a knife to replace one we've mislaid, and then a peach tree. Later, I dug a hole for it & gave it lots of good soil. Some of our fruit trees have been slow to take.
05/03. Sunday: I slept late. After hard labour & then wine over dinner, I'm ready for early bed. But then I wake in the early hours, frustrated & unable to doze off again. The morning showed us to be misted in, with occasional glimpses of the outer world as a breeze ruffled the clouds' skirts. Then through the clouds, a ray of sunshine descended from heaven, lighting up the white beehive church on a neighbouring hill like the new Jerusalem.
We walked down to lunch at a restaurant in Loule, stopping every few minutes to admire this plant or that wall or to express our distaste for some monstrosity of a house. Curs hurled themselves against the length of their chains in a display of ferocity. Since raising the alarm is the sole purpose of their lives, I didn't hold it against them. But we felt we'd more than done our duty to the canines of the valley by the time we arrived. Lunch was cozido, a selection of meats and sausages with potato & boiled cabbage. Tastes better than it sounds.
We decided to return around the rim of the far hills, a four mile ramble with a long incline. We paused in a primitive bar, run - as it happens - by the family who sold us 7th Heaven. We sipped medronho (a local witblits) & coke, watched the locals playing cards & fired ourselves up for the rest of the walk. Part of it was along a sand road lined with huge stones cast in a lunar landscape of most wondrous shapes. Jones sighed to possess them.
The rich trader who owns the ground below ours (and much else besides) drove his family up in a minibus to survey his property. We exchanged cautious greetings, neither of us having forgotten a sharp exchange of words some years ago when he had opted to park on my property as by right. It's an awkward relationship as he owns a small piece of ground which gives us access to the Quinta.
He was, he confessed, thinking of building below us as the traffic was disturbing the tranquillity of his mansion. Jones was not pleased. She fears that he has more money than taste & that a monstrosity will sprout from the hillside below us.
06/03. Monday: Drizzle. We drove down to The Gates of Heaven for coffee & almond croissants. Utterly delicious! The hire-car was a baby Citroen, the first I had driven and more cramped than the usual Ford Fiestas and Renault Clios. The roof was uncomfortably low & the car's single wiper failed to clear the upper part of the windscreen, forcing me to hunch down to see. It wouldn't do, not for the trip we planned to the Alentejo. We explained the problem at the depot. They were sympathetic but had nothing ready, other than a larger, uncleaned, newly-returned Citroen. Would that do? Sheer luxury! We departed in haste.
We braaied for lunch, sausages I'd hefted down from London. There were the boys, Geoff's other half - Lynne, the pair of us & John & Olive. I tended the braai while they sat around in MCP's kitchen, admiring the boys' handiwork. Noite nosed through the greenery, the sausages sizzled on the braai & the sun came & went. This is the life!
In the afternoon, I extended the semi-circular steps leading up to Barbara's Bower (a sort of throne that J & O have built at the top of a bank. Jones gardened - as usual. She found traces of the numerous slugs I had slain earlier. The mist had brought them out in their dozens, oozing down the paths, guzzling her plants. I spent 15 ruthless minutes zapping them with a trowel, tossing corpses left & right. The birds and ants must have feasted.
13/03. Monday: We went down with Geoff to a building supplier to select tiles & other items for MCP'S bathroom. It took an hour but was well worth it. The car was so heavily loaded that the back wheels scrubbed against the arches. We had to transfer tiles and paint to the front seat before squeezing Geoff in, & to drop Jones off in Loule. Managed to get up the hill, but had to reverse up the drive. I painted the interior of MCP all afternoon & then rushed to supper with John & Olive. She's a great cook but they follow their old English habit of eating at 6 and then retiring to bed by 9. We generally like to work until sunset around 8 and found the interruption to our labours rude. But the meal more than made up for it
14/03. Tuesday. Spent an hour painting in MCP. Then went with Jones to look for a table & mattress for MCP. Planned to visit the seaside town of Olhao which has huge furniture stores, but found a reasonable mattress in Loule. Noite has taken to sleeping on our bed; Jones tends to turn a blind eye. Not me. I warned Noite that she was looking for trouble. The second time, I threw a jersey at her. She leapt of the bed and tried to flee the bedroom, but merely skidded madly on the tiles. We saw hardly anything of her after that. She has moved in with the French with whom she was spending most of her time anyhow. Purrs in French, as Jones puts it.
I sprayed grammox on the weeds and grasses trying to take over the driveway. It went against my inclinations. Is vicious stuff. We also put up Gunther's second Quintassential sign, on the tree at the base of the driveway. Looks splendid. He took immense trouble with it. Neighbours from the valley joined us for drinks with J & O. When they left, I braaied sausages & kebabs on our patio under the stars. Drank too much wine.
15/03 Wednesday. Woke with aching head. To compound it, J & O complained that they had no water. Was unable to sort it out. G & J away for the day. Disaster! The Germans also high & dry. Pumps are working. God knows what the problem is. Still, it was a gorgeous day - following the first mozzie attack of the season the previous night. I recemented the stone path below Principio to hide the water-pipe extension to the lower cisterna. Then added a final row of stones to Barbara's Bower. Looks good. Jones brushed off the cement with a sponge. Finally painted MCP before rushing to an outdoors-supper for all with Germans. Hildegard read a carefully prepared brief speech in English. She had prepared delicious potato salad and meatballs plus own mustard. European Community again - was remarkably convivial. Admired all Hildegard's family photos & drank lots of beers. Then we walked down to Paixanitos for drinks & coffee under a bright full moon.
16/03 Thursday: Was hard. There were a hundred things I still wanted to do and no chance of doing half of them. The end of the holiday loomed. I had no inclination to return to London. We drove to Olhao to look for a table for MCP. I liked a long, stained pine table; Jones preferred a short one. We bought the short one. On the way back, we encountered three gypsy carts coming the wrong way down the fast lane of the motorway. God knows how they got on or if they got off again. I told Jones I wanted to be well out of the area before they reach the nearby junction where they would find themselves caught in the middle of a 4-lane highway. Scary!
In the afternoon, I mended the irrigation system. I discovered why Penny Mason's bush had become a giant; the nozzle had come off the drip feed and it had been getting a stream of water instead. It obviously liked it. Walked down to Casa Paixanito for supper with John & Olive. A superb meal; the starters were great. We strolled home (I confess I staggered here & there in spite of the brightly-lit road. What a moon!).
17/03 Friday: It was the loveliest day. Could see all the way down to the coast to Albufeira. We agreed terms with one of our tenants, John Vincent, for any painting/handiwork he did on our behalf in our absence. He's a treasure. We went down to town to fetch the loo/cistern which had been ordered for the bathroom and to draw 450,000 escudos from the bank, to pay for MCP's windows & doors and to pay the boys until the end of the month. Nearly £2,000. But Sterling has been falling so fast that it's hard to know what it’s worth any more. Hurts me.
We did a last tour of garden. The grammox I had sprayed on the drive was doing horrible things to the grass & weeds which had been growing there. Jones doubts that we should use it again. It's certainly effective. We discussed putting in small wood-burning stoves in the apartments, with exterior barbecues sharing the same chimneys. Jones said we should not proceed unless we were committed to stay at the Quinta for another ten years & until we were sure that the dreaded "rich man" would not ruin our view with a monstrous house.
Finally the farewells - the boys, Maria, the Germans, the French & the English. We presented the car-hire people with a box of chocolates to thank them for the upgraded car. What a pleasure it made our holiday. Jones was smiling. She was coming to London for a holiday. One day I'll do that too. Not yet!
My dear folks,
When a helicopter comes whirring over your roof at spitting distance, with a pilot peering down through an open door, you know that something out of the usual is happening. From every window neighbours hung out as the craft dropped down on to the adjoining school field. Barbara remarked on the wailing police sirens that had shattered the morning and wondered if they and the helicopter were connected with the looming England-Scotland rugby final. But it was only later, after the helicopter had thundered up and over, that I gathered from a neighbour details of the drama of the week, played out on my very doorstep.
A thief had apparently nicked a whole bunch of tools from the back of a carpenter's van parked right outside our flat. The carpenter emerged to catch the thief in the act and leapt on to the rear of the thief's departing car. This rocketed 100 yards up the street before colliding with the traffic lights, crumpling the car, crippling the thief & bruising the carpenter. The thief had to be cut free and it was he, it seems, who was flown to hospital - a great waste of taxpayers' money if ever there was. I could see the corner area seething with blue lights & cops but I confess that I missed the drama. Good thing that I don't work in local news.
I was working away in my study at the time, catching up on dozens of items that required attention. Such is the penalty one pays for a two-week absence in Portugal. On the plus side, we found a stack of faxes & letters awaiting us. I can hardly tell you how much pleasure they brought. I do hope that you may feel the same away about the following account of our holiday which, as usual, is almost as much of a diary as a letter - possibly for the book I may write one day (on top of Benson's Bedside God-Book & How to Avoid Becoming a Celebrity). The letter comes in 2 parts, The Quinta and The Holiday. First to: The Quinta:
03/03. Friday: To Portugal. Jones was at the airport. It was overcast, pleasantly so after the blizzards across England. The Quintassential garden was green. The succulents, normally so restrained, were bursting with red & yellow flowers. Just love them. We joined the Geoff & John, the builders (aka the boys) for drinks around the new fireplace in the corner of MCP's kitchen. Although the windows & doors are still missing, the fire threw out a cheery warmth. Jones is thrilled. Staying warm is one of her great challenges in life. The kitchen is all but complete. G & J have picked out the ancient bread-oven in a brick surround that looks splendid. The sink is a stone bowl, one of those we found on site. MCP is delightful, a Hansel and Gretel product of circumstances that no architect could have designed. It ought to be habitable in April, although it will be May before the patio & workshop are completed.
Jones decided that a gathering of the European Community over snacks and drinks would be the best way to mark my arrival. John & Olive came from 7th Heaven; Gunther & Hildegard from Principio, & Bob (pronounced Burb) & Marie-Christine from the Lemon Quintet. We crowded into the Carob Quintet; the evenings are still sharp.
Whisky was the flavour of the hour, the 12-year old I had bought on the plane finding special favour. We were something between a convivial Tower of Babel & the European Parliament. Barbara was the translator, switching between her natural English, good French, inadvertent Portuguese & excruciating German until she tied her into a linguistic knot. Yet we all seemed to understand one another remarkably well & the occasion was pronounced a decided success.
Thence the English speakers proceeded down the dirt track to Paixanito where we joined the local Brits for their Friday dinner outing. I noted with some alarm the extent to which one of our company, who has Alzheimers, had deteriorated. Her husband, though elderly, is in good shape & excellent company. She has retreated into a world of her own, except that she remains very fond of her food and makes loud impatient demands for it, (especially for bananas of which the restaurant keeps a supply handy). Although the group has been meeting there for years & knows her well, her behaviour is beginning to mar the gathering.
04/03. Saturday: we walked down through the hills to Loule for toast & coffee & exercise. Jones was still wearing a thick red coat. I needed a jersey and jacket. Some of the tourists in town were determined that it should be summer, though, and paraded in shorts and t-shirts. The Saturday outdoor market was short of people. A beautiful gypsy girl, still in her teens, looked up from the large infant she was suckling to assure us that her items were very good, very cheap. We bought a knife to replace one we've mislaid, and then a peach tree. Later, I dug a hole for it & gave it lots of good soil. Some of our fruit trees have been slow to take.
05/03. Sunday: I slept late. After hard labour & then wine over dinner, I'm ready for early bed. But then I wake in the early hours, frustrated & unable to doze off again. The morning showed us to be misted in, with occasional glimpses of the outer world as a breeze ruffled the clouds' skirts. Then through the clouds, a ray of sunshine descended from heaven, lighting up the white beehive church on a neighbouring hill like the new Jerusalem.
We walked down to lunch at a restaurant in Loule, stopping every few minutes to admire this plant or that wall or to express our distaste for some monstrosity of a house. Curs hurled themselves against the length of their chains in a display of ferocity. Since raising the alarm is the sole purpose of their lives, I didn't hold it against them. But we felt we'd more than done our duty to the canines of the valley by the time we arrived. Lunch was cozido, a selection of meats and sausages with potato & boiled cabbage. Tastes better than it sounds.
We decided to return around the rim of the far hills, a four mile ramble with a long incline. We paused in a primitive bar, run - as it happens - by the family who sold us 7th Heaven. We sipped medronho (a local witblits) & coke, watched the locals playing cards & fired ourselves up for the rest of the walk. Part of it was along a sand road lined with huge stones cast in a lunar landscape of most wondrous shapes. Jones sighed to possess them.
The rich trader who owns the ground below ours (and much else besides) drove his family up in a minibus to survey his property. We exchanged cautious greetings, neither of us having forgotten a sharp exchange of words some years ago when he had opted to park on my property as by right. It's an awkward relationship as he owns a small piece of ground which gives us access to the Quinta.
He was, he confessed, thinking of building below us as the traffic was disturbing the tranquillity of his mansion. Jones was not pleased. She fears that he has more money than taste & that a monstrosity will sprout from the hillside below us.
06/03. Monday: Drizzle. We drove down to The Gates of Heaven for coffee & almond croissants. Utterly delicious! The hire-car was a baby Citroen, the first I had driven and more cramped than the usual Ford Fiestas and Renault Clios. The roof was uncomfortably low & the car's single wiper failed to clear the upper part of the windscreen, forcing me to hunch down to see. It wouldn't do, not for the trip we planned to the Alentejo. We explained the problem at the depot. They were sympathetic but had nothing ready, other than a larger, uncleaned, newly-returned Citroen. Would that do? Sheer luxury! We departed in haste.
We braaied for lunch, sausages I'd hefted down from London. There were the boys, Geoff's other half - Lynne, the pair of us & John & Olive. I tended the braai while they sat around in MCP's kitchen, admiring the boys' handiwork. Noite nosed through the greenery, the sausages sizzled on the braai & the sun came & went. This is the life!
In the afternoon, I extended the semi-circular steps leading up to Barbara's Bower (a sort of throne that J & O have built at the top of a bank. Jones gardened - as usual. She found traces of the numerous slugs I had slain earlier. The mist had brought them out in their dozens, oozing down the paths, guzzling her plants. I spent 15 ruthless minutes zapping them with a trowel, tossing corpses left & right. The birds and ants must have feasted.
13/03. Monday: We went down with Geoff to a building supplier to select tiles & other items for MCP'S bathroom. It took an hour but was well worth it. The car was so heavily loaded that the back wheels scrubbed against the arches. We had to transfer tiles and paint to the front seat before squeezing Geoff in, & to drop Jones off in Loule. Managed to get up the hill, but had to reverse up the drive. I painted the interior of MCP all afternoon & then rushed to supper with John & Olive. She's a great cook but they follow their old English habit of eating at 6 and then retiring to bed by 9. We generally like to work until sunset around 8 and found the interruption to our labours rude. But the meal more than made up for it
14/03. Tuesday. Spent an hour painting in MCP. Then went with Jones to look for a table & mattress for MCP. Planned to visit the seaside town of Olhao which has huge furniture stores, but found a reasonable mattress in Loule. Noite has taken to sleeping on our bed; Jones tends to turn a blind eye. Not me. I warned Noite that she was looking for trouble. The second time, I threw a jersey at her. She leapt of the bed and tried to flee the bedroom, but merely skidded madly on the tiles. We saw hardly anything of her after that. She has moved in with the French with whom she was spending most of her time anyhow. Purrs in French, as Jones puts it.
I sprayed grammox on the weeds and grasses trying to take over the driveway. It went against my inclinations. Is vicious stuff. We also put up Gunther's second Quintassential sign, on the tree at the base of the driveway. Looks splendid. He took immense trouble with it. Neighbours from the valley joined us for drinks with J & O. When they left, I braaied sausages & kebabs on our patio under the stars. Drank too much wine.
15/03 Wednesday. Woke with aching head. To compound it, J & O complained that they had no water. Was unable to sort it out. G & J away for the day. Disaster! The Germans also high & dry. Pumps are working. God knows what the problem is. Still, it was a gorgeous day - following the first mozzie attack of the season the previous night. I recemented the stone path below Principio to hide the water-pipe extension to the lower cisterna. Then added a final row of stones to Barbara's Bower. Looks good. Jones brushed off the cement with a sponge. Finally painted MCP before rushing to an outdoors-supper for all with Germans. Hildegard read a carefully prepared brief speech in English. She had prepared delicious potato salad and meatballs plus own mustard. European Community again - was remarkably convivial. Admired all Hildegard's family photos & drank lots of beers. Then we walked down to Paixanitos for drinks & coffee under a bright full moon.
16/03 Thursday: Was hard. There were a hundred things I still wanted to do and no chance of doing half of them. The end of the holiday loomed. I had no inclination to return to London. We drove to Olhao to look for a table for MCP. I liked a long, stained pine table; Jones preferred a short one. We bought the short one. On the way back, we encountered three gypsy carts coming the wrong way down the fast lane of the motorway. God knows how they got on or if they got off again. I told Jones I wanted to be well out of the area before they reach the nearby junction where they would find themselves caught in the middle of a 4-lane highway. Scary!
In the afternoon, I mended the irrigation system. I discovered why Penny Mason's bush had become a giant; the nozzle had come off the drip feed and it had been getting a stream of water instead. It obviously liked it. Walked down to Casa Paixanito for supper with John & Olive. A superb meal; the starters were great. We strolled home (I confess I staggered here & there in spite of the brightly-lit road. What a moon!).
17/03 Friday: It was the loveliest day. Could see all the way down to the coast to Albufeira. We agreed terms with one of our tenants, John Vincent, for any painting/handiwork he did on our behalf in our absence. He's a treasure. We went down to town to fetch the loo/cistern which had been ordered for the bathroom and to draw 450,000 escudos from the bank, to pay for MCP's windows & doors and to pay the boys until the end of the month. Nearly £2,000. But Sterling has been falling so fast that it's hard to know what it’s worth any more. Hurts me.
We did a last tour of garden. The grammox I had sprayed on the drive was doing horrible things to the grass & weeds which had been growing there. Jones doubts that we should use it again. It's certainly effective. We discussed putting in small wood-burning stoves in the apartments, with exterior barbecues sharing the same chimneys. Jones said we should not proceed unless we were committed to stay at the Quinta for another ten years & until we were sure that the dreaded "rich man" would not ruin our view with a monstrous house.
Finally the farewells - the boys, Maria, the Germans, the French & the English. We presented the car-hire people with a box of chocolates to thank them for the upgraded car. What a pleasure it made our holiday. Jones was smiling. She was coming to London for a holiday. One day I'll do that too. Not yet!
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