14February1995

London: 14 February 1995
My dear folks,

I feel that I have a great many things to tell you about. It's evening, my night off, with four down and three to go - and very nice too. Mavis is taking his dinner after telling me in his unmistakable way (rub-rub, and if you don't react instantly, rub-rub again) how incredibly hungry he was. Don Williams is crooning Gypsy Woman (a song I love) from the CD as a write. I have supped and there begins my tale.

Our oven packed up a couple of days ago, for the umpteenth time. The electronic switch that controls it never seems to last more a couple of years (and we've been here for 15). It was time for a microwave; that much was clear to me, given my intermittent bachelor lifestyle and needs. So when I woke this afternoon, I hauled out my “Consumer Which” for their analysis of what to buy and what to avoid. There followed 15 minutes of phoning until I tracked down a store that had what I wanted. Yes, they had it and were trying to sell me their in-house appliance protection policy before I put the phone down.

Thirty minutes of London crawl saw me to Islington and a further ten minutes found the store. The super-efficient (black lady) appliance section manager gave me a brief rundown on models (I actually bought a slightly more expensive model - £99 - on the sale) and then began the hard-sell on the 5-year policy that went with it....nothing to pay for the first 13 months etc. “No interest,” I told her, “I just want the micro-wave, not the policy.” "You're just the kind of customer," she began," that we find it worth explaining....." Do you know how that pisses me off, getting lectured by sales people selling scammy policies on commission. They are taught all the customer responses and how to get around them. I became quite brusque, informing her that she was wasting her time and my time and could I please have my oven. While she went to fetch it, her assistant asked me why I thought the policy such bad value. I told her why & that if the oven was faulty, I would throw it away & buy another one, but not from her store. She wasn't convinced. We agreed to disagree. Home was another 45 mins through even worse traffic.

But, and I guess this is what matters, supper (frozen oriental something from Mr Sainsbury) took 4 mins and tasted delicious. I'm hooked. Give me microwaves every time. When I awake 90 minutes before I start work at night, I don't need to spend 15 of them warming the oven and another 30 cooking Mr Sainsbury's specials. 4 mins is my kind of time. I should have got one years ago. Ironically, the first microwave we bought was a model we obtained from Makro down in Portugal at the start of the year. Then a neighbour made us an offer we couldn't refuse on one he was getting rid of and we bought that too, for MCP. Good things come in threes, don't they say that. (Who's "they" I always want to ask when people talk about "they say"! - meaning "I say", of course.)

Then I got a rave fax from Cathy about ENCARTA, which arrived yesterday, even though their new CD Drive is having sound problems. Just wait until you sort them out and ENCARTA whacks you with its sound fx Cathy - not to speak of the musical excerpts. That's when you understand why multi-media is the future, like it or hate it. The news media here are full of its entry into schools. It makes learning a fun experience as never before. Next time I come to see you, I'm bringing SIMCITY 2000 to see what kind of cities my nieces can build (assuming on your kind permission, of course.)

Work continues okay, still very busy. But on the other hand, the nights fly. I watched the early dawn briefly as I went to studio at 6.45 this morning. London was outlined against the pinkest of skies. It was lovely. An hour later, the sun was streaming through the windows. I awoke this afternoon to rain pattering on the windows and wind shaking them in their frames. Wet and windy is the forecast, as so often. As I write, there's a gust and an extra spatter of rain to emphasise my words. I got my salary slip today and was delighted to notice a few extra shekels on the bottom line, fruits of additional days' and nights' labour these past months. They'll come in jolly useful too, with Mr Viglen arriving on this month's credit card bill, to say nothing of a couple of trips to Portugal.

But I regret Mr Viglen not a whit. He has settled down again after throwing a wobbly at me last week. He plays the loveliest music to me while I work, opens new information worlds to me, sends and receives faxes & email, puts me on the Internet, plays games, writes letters, works out my finances, keeps Quinta correspondence and bookings. He really is the most useful sort of companion. And he's very undemanding. There is no doubt that if I were ever to appear on Desert Island Discs (weekly radio interview with a notable whose reminiscences are interspersed with choices of music), my choice of a single object to take to my Desert Island would be either Mr Viglen or Mr Compaq. (One interviewee said he would take one of his mistresses, but she was disallowed, whether on grounds of taste or rules was unclear.)

30 mins of TV News.....lead story is the magistrates decision to send Rosemary West (ever heard of her?) to trial on charges of multiple murder & indecent assault). Her husband, builder and part-time serial killer, wisely hanged himself in prison a few weeks back. He (& wife, it seems) did away with a dozen good folk, including their own daughter & step-daughter & a lodger. When the police dug up their house and garden, skeletons tumbled out as from a tomb. Just no accounting for taste in this world. Her lawyer says she should be freed because she's innocent (choke!) and will never get a fair trial (yuck!) Shades of OJ.

Speaking of whom, we're running bets on whether he will be found guilty. My bet is that the good black ladies on the jury will decide that the poor fellow has been maligned and that he will come out praising God and American justice that declaring that his innocence has been vindicated. I reckon Walt Disney should be allowed to run the US Justice system and that viewers (push the button now if you think he's guilty) should be allowed to decide his fate for themselves. Makes me think of the tried & tested means people had of establishing whether a woman was a witch, by dunking her in a river. If she drowned she was innocent (if unfortunate); if she lived, she was guilty and got burned instead. Kind of ironic, but there it is.

Every now & then, I get vivid insights into why Jones wanted to kick over the TV bucket and go and grow flowers. Truly, the world is full of crap and hype and hypocrisy and Boesaks and OJs & chairmen of (privatised) North West Water informing parliamentary committees it is no business of anyone but the shareholders if they earn in an hour (before share-options) what their secretaries earn in a week. T'was always thus.

Still, when I see the night guards doing their lonely patrols around the TV centre (a vast, sprawling factory of a place) and trying to stay awake in their lonely little cabins, I'm grateful for the job. "It's better than being in Grozny", I tell my companions when they grizzle about the hours and the destruction of their family and social lives. And so it is. And there is always the possibility that the youngsters who hang about the gates in the hope of seeing a celebrity will ask one as one leaves: Excuse me, but are you famous? Peter Biles had to confess to them that he was not, not yet anyhow.