10January1995

London: 10 January 1995
My dear folks,

We have enjoyed two remarkable films these past few days, at least in the sense that both bear remarking on. The first was Tarantino's Pulp Fiction, which we attended with Penny, Richard and Chris on New Year's Eve, and the other a feature entitled Princess Caraboo which Jones and I walked up to the local shopping centre to see this afternoon. Pulp Fiction had been highly rated by the Beeb's veteran film critic here, with a warning that one had to go prepared for the bluest of language and the reddest of gore - although both turned out to be a bit tongue in cheek. I watched Jones and Penny out of the corner of my eye as bullets and epithets flew (not generally their scene) and was relieved to see that neither of them was bothered. The more we watched, the more fascinated we grew. It has to be one of the cleverest films I've seen in ages - tales within a tale, rich in irony and spattered with lines that sizzle long after the event (mainly not repeatable in a family letter).

Princess Caraboo on the other hand features not a speck of blood or a word out of place and can be safely recommended to all one's maiden aunts (if this species is still extant). The film is set in the early 19th Century and based - we are led to believe - on a true story. It has the fascination of A Secret Garden and, while quite enchanting, manages to poke some painful fingers in high society's eye. Apart from this, it is also gripping - as a journalist tries to discover the origins of a mysterious princess who takes society by storm (with unforeseen consequences). The film has the rare quality of being equally watchable by children and adults. Do yourself a favour.

The weatherman says there's going to be a dump of snow over much of the country, although it's not expected in the south east. The Alps has been absolutely plastered with the stuff this past week. Jones and I are thinking of trying to get in a few days' skiing in the Spanish Nevadas in Feb or March. Radical changes in my timetable and a whole range of new programming have made it hard to plan ahead. I ought to have a better idea of where I stand in about a week. Meanwhile, we wrap up warm to go out. There was a bitter wind in our faces as we walked to the cinema. Jones, who had neglected to take a scarf, tried to vanish inside her new Karakul coat, with limited success. It is a very smart coat and I like it as well as she does. But it does not fasten at the neck.

We had a long fax from Cathy to tell us of the Gohdes New Year adventures on their German horsey holiday farm - and thoroughly enjoyed it. Thank you Cathy. Our own old year rolled seamlessly into the new. Jones returns to Portugal on the 20th of this month and I hope to plan a brief stay down there as soon as I know where I stand. We gather from our builders that the apartment is making steady progress and that water is once again flowing generously into the cisternas. I dreamed last night that someone had left the pump turned on and the water was gushing out of the pipe. I was very annoyed and ran to turn it off, having to clamber over a low wall en route and reflecting (in my dream) that in earlier years I would have jumped it effortlessly.

Two of my female colleagues passed me in the corridor the other evening (as I was headed to the BBC club). "What a lovely man!", I heard one remark to the other when they clearly thought they were out of earshot. I've been reflecting on it ever since. It's a compliment, no doubt, but is it a desirable compliment? Does one want to be lovely? I suppose one could do worse.