18February1994

London: 18 February 1994
My dear folks,

I'm slowly going red. That's like slowly going grey, only in the reverse direction. It's a gradual business and has not yet attracted comment from my colleagues. So I think I've got the younging process about right. It consists of dabbing splodges of auburn tint on to my beard once a week and then using an accompanying cream to cement the colour. I started out with the upper sideburns some weeks ago and am heading steadily for the jaw. I confess that I rather like the results. Old greybeard has vanished and his good-looking younger brother gazes back at me from the mirror. The tint matches my (still) auburn head of hair extremely well and the whole effect is most realistic.

No, I am not going mad or being overtaken by the male menopause. It's all to do with those German nieces of mine and the “Get Younger Potions” I took in such generous measure during our holiday together in Portugal last year. I assured my scornful nieces that in future I would get one year younger each birthday. Of course, they merely scoffed at the jabbering idiot and offered him more Get Younger Potion as it seemed to keep him happy. Well, they've a surprise coming, those nieces, when they arrive here in just over a month for a visit to England. All going to plan, they'll be met at the airport by a paunchless, red-bearded, virile unclet.

I shall bask in their amazement and accept their apologies graciously. I may even inquire of my younger niece if she wishes to think again about her blunt refusal to consider my hand when we both turn thirty some time in the next century. The secret, like the genie, we will leave in the bottle. Likewise, I think I may be forgiven for concealing from them that my condition has more to do with total abstinence from the magic formula than dedication to it. Yes, I'm still on the wagon and gradually winning the battle of the bulge. I tell myself that what's important is to persist at losing a little each week rather than trying to sprint for the finish and collapsing exhausted over the line. But it would be nice if it came off a little faster.

This letter comes to you from a different part of my computer. I'm trying the Write Programme in the Windows section instead of the World Processor Programme in my Works software. This one has more limitations, but it at least allows me to justify the margins which the other, for inconceivable reasons, does not. And it also has this sensible size 11 font, in-between the economical but squinty 10 and the wasteful 12 offered by the other programme. My colleagues all rave about the ultimate software WordPerfect but that's £300 down the road, a great distance from where I stand. Yes, you'll gather that the bug is still upon me. I've been spending two to three hours a day at it, mainly writing useful letters to bankers and guests and all, but also merely trying to fathom this mind-boggling machine.

It’s snowed. It began at eight o-clock in the morning. It was merely sleeting and dropping ice spickles when I set out on the bicycle 15 minutes earlier for work. By eight-fifteen, when I arrived, I looked like a snow-cyclist. And I felt like one too. At the gate, I proffered my wallet to the guard, telling him that he would have to extract my identity card from it himself for my hands were frozen stiff. And so they were. They stung for 30 minutes afterwards as life returned to them. Outside, the street had turned into a skating rink and vehicles skated into one another with gay abandon. It was quite distracting.

The roads were a slushy mess on the way home. But the white stuff still lay piled in the gutters and on the steps when I got back home. The steps, in fact, were dangerously icy, and I spent 15 minutes scraping the ice off again. I've already had a lifetime's worth of back operations.

Next morning, even the skylight was snowed in. I left the house early, needing to catch a bus as the bike was playing up (the chain would lose traction without warning, leaving my feet spinning around and the bike stationary). Outside was breathtaking. The world was white. The pavements had vanished under two inches of virgin snow. It was too beautiful. It was also bloody cold. A bus appeared as I crossed the road and I let it take me all the way to work, climbing off at the terminus 50 yards from the Bush House door. Jones trudged out into the snow behind me. It wasn't too bad, she said afterwards. She'd enjoyed the tramp. I love that scrunch of snow underfoot. It takes me back to Canada. - Anyhow, by evening, it had gone, in London that is. Further north, the country remains white.

Dave, the bike repairman (in politically-correct English, that would be repair-person or Bicycle Restoration Executive or worse; one daft council even outlawed manager because it suggested man until merciless media lampooning led managers to be restored). Well, Dave said the spindle had gone and he'd replaced it and something else which had also gone and that would be £42. At least I'm no longer peddling fresh air. But is it merely my imagination or did the bicycles of yore not go forever on air and oil alone. That's my second major repair this year. "It's time you bought a new bike," says John, the shop owner. But I suspect it's not impartial advice.

Now you'd be forgiven by the tone of this letter for thinking that I led a bachelor existence. Not so. Jones and Mavis are still part of the household. I got a lecture at the door a while back from a very fierce lady who objected to Mavis's freedom to roam outside. Was I aware, she demanded to know, that cats were stolen every day by gangs who delighted in throwing them to ravenous dogs for sport. She was a member of some society dedicated to saving cats and knew these things. I wasn't aware. Well, it was time I became aware. If Mavis had survived the last four years in the hazardous environment of Maida Vale, it was sheer luck and couldn't last. No, she was thinking of giving him away to someone who had a secure garden. No, it didn't matter that Mavis was outside because he ripped the flat to pieces if he was kept locked inside.

After hearing all this three times, I sort of explained that Mavis was our cat and lived his life in great contentment and thank you for offering to save him from himself and good evening. She was a formidable woman, one of the kind who don't stop jawing at you for a moment, don't listen at all and make their points by persistent repetition. I guess it takes all types.

And Jones keeps on doing her Jones thing. Mainly, that's been working. I get her a cup of tea to ease her out of bed on her work mornings. Her sighs on rising from her warm bed would disturb the dead. Their intensity is matched only by the fervently expressed satisfaction of waking to a home-day and the joy of a lie-in. For better or worse, I share neither the torment nor the joy. With rare exceptions, I rise when I wake, weekday or weekend. True, given the choice, I'd rather wake unaided than to the shrill of the alarm. But that's not a big deal either. It's more important to beat the stink and scrum of the rush-hour than to arise from a warm bed. Sorry, that was meant to be a paragraph about Jones. One of these days, she'll just have to write her own letter. But as I'm assigned the role of family correspondent, you may have to wait a while.