18February1995

London: 18 February 1995
My dear folks,

Saturday evening: Half of me is quite exhausted. The other half luxuriates in the space & time to catch up on life. The two halves swap sides every now and then, just to confuse matters. It's been a heavy week of night-shifts but not a trying one. I have managed to get in at least 7 hours sleep each day, enough to get me through the night with reserves to spare. (My colleagues speak of the desperation they feel when they wake after 3 or 4 hours, knowing that it's not enough!) I meant to get my head down for just a couple of hours today, to avoid lying awake in the early hours of Sunday. But it was close to 4 p.m. when I awoke, having dreamed that I'd undergone another back operation, quite painlessly, which rather surprised me. (I crooked my back picking up a suitcase last month but, praise be, it's recovered its good humour.)

I may have been listening to too many bulletins about Britain's nursing sisters who are breathing fire over their 1% pay rise. Sorry! no money to spare, says the government, which is paying the doctors 2.5%. The nurses, having seen handsome increases handed out to MPs and other assorted gravy-trainers, are sceptical, as I confess I am myself. Not over the size of the pie, but the division. As ever, the geese get the sermons and the ganders get the sauce. Anyhow, the nurses must fight their own battles. I hope only that I do not fall ill during the conflict. Much was made here of Nelson Mandela's stern words to South Africa's restless labour force. In Europe, discontented French teachers are marching. Dissatisfied German workers are threatening strikes. No doubt, elements of the Canadian labour force are equally unhappy. That’s life.

Having arisen, I collected some nondescript mail from downstairs. Faxes from Mum, Jones and Fregs improved my day. Then I took myself for a swim, part of the current "keep-back-happy" and "slim-tummy-down" regime. The changing room was occupied by a half-a-dozen naked males, none of them exactly an Adonis, and I felt grateful for the convention of clothing. Truly, it hides a multitude of sins. There were two little black boys in the open showers in the changing room, one of whom confided to the other I had ginger hair there. It would look jolly funny, I informed him, if I was ginger on top and some other colour in the middle. They were slightly embarrassed at having been overheard but not too put out to ask to borrow my hair shampoo, having forgotten their own. I obliged. There's no point in expecting political (or any other kind of correctness) from youth. Truth is their forte, palatable or otherwise.

Then I bought myself some microwavable haddock from M&S and a Simon and Garfunkel CD and walked home in the dark and the drizzle to do the washing, feed the cats (Poepoe in the basement as well as Mavis) and write to you. The microwave is an absolute star. What a joy to get delicious hot food five minutes after slinging a pack into it. I just love it. Oven awaits repair. Its star has waned and the repair will have to wait until I can arrange a suitable appointment.

Mavis, by the way, is warring with me over Sainsburys cat-biscuits which he loathes. He won't even eat catgoo with their biscuits mixed in. I don't believe in catering to fastidious cats and am quite content to allow his supper to become his breakfast. There's nothing like a little hunger to sharpen the appetite. When he's desperate, he eats but only just enough to stop himself from fainting away, leaving more than enough in the bowl to save his honour. The battle continues. Not that you would know it; he's lying belly-up, paws akimbo under his sun-lamp.

Sunday I am spending with friends who are hiring the company computer expert for the day to sharpen up our skills. It's my birthday (or was it Christmas?) present from them and the nicest I could ask for. I must have 20 computer manuals and guides on the shelf and more in Viglen's memory. But it takes ages to find anything & longer to grasp it. However clever computers are, there's nothing like a real person when it matters. News tonight that the British government is following the example of the US and putting itself on the Internet.

I followed with utter fascination the arrest of the notorious US hacker, Mitnik, who has done untold millions of dollars' damage to government and company computer systems, working through a mobile phone so as to be almost untraceable. But he was traced, with the aid of a computer scientist whose own computer Mitnik had previously hacked into. I noted that the judge before whom he was brought placed severe restrictions on Mitnik's use of a phone while in prison to prevent him getting access to any computer files while under arrest. On previous occasions, he has apparently memorised the name/number of the arresting officer and later hacked into the appropriate police computer files to take his revenge.

And before I leave the subject entirely, let me tell you that a gang broke into the Dept of Transport offices in London and trashed the computers on 4 floors (in spite of all the security cameras and other measures) stealing the hard discs. (Better hope they were backed up!) "Environmental terrorists" is being whispered. There's narry a new road built or tree felled in Britain these days but you need as many guards as workers to keep at bay hundreds of activists determined to block it.

Fregs mentioned in his fax from Johannesburg that he had seen my report on the English soccer hooligans and liked it (not them, horrible people) - ever a man of excellent taste. Clearly Mum, you can get the service in Jhb, I think in the early hours. (No, I wasn't in Dublin. We get on-the-spot reports from our correspondents around the world, which members of the overnight team later rework for the early morning, putting their scripts & voices to the latest pictures. With a news bulletin on the hour, every hour, 6 to 8 hours is the maximum life of a report. After that, it either has to be refashioned or dropped. To have a viewer get up to the same news packages he saw before going to bed is reckoned to be sudden death.)

I had a chat with one of the minor brass last week to try to get some clarity about the timing of my appointment to the Arabic Service. It seems that the Department appointed several people with a view to extending its output. But because the BBC merely provides the service to a conglomerate who sell it on to viewers in the Middle East, the Beeb does not call these shots. And if anybody knows just when the change is coming, they ain't telling. At least, they ain't telling me. The Beeb has always been full of corporate politics and corporate muddle and its growing involvement in the commercial sector is clearly only going to exacerbate the state of affairs.

It's an irritant. But I've survived worse. Instead of stewing over it, I'm planning to make the most of the vacation coming up in Portugal next month. Most Portugal trips are necessarily given over to fixing the bits of the Quinta that are protesting their neglect. This time, we aim to get away for a good break. Jones has moved all her gear into the back rooms of 7th Heaven while guests/friends take over the rest of it for a week. Fortunately, it divides very comfortably in two. But she says she can't wait to make the final move, into MCP. This trekking around her own property with her baskets of goods is getting her down. The boys seem to be making steady progress. They had been aiming for the end of March. With the workshop to be attached to the cottage, I suspect that will become the end of April and probably a good way into May. But it matters not. Then that's it. No more developments. We'll just lie back and admire it for a while.

I had a call today from a South African colleague I worked with in London in the early 80s. He's with the SABC and had arrived in Britain at short notice. I look forward to a long chat. From what I can gather, most of my former Broederbond colleagues have either departed or are in the process of doing so. Whether it's a better SABC for that I wait to hear. No doubt, some of you already entertain strong views on the subject. The Beeb has its problems but they're not in the same league. And when all is said and done, I think the hardest part of leaving Britain one day will be leaving its media. They're outstanding. Or, should I say, one can find outstanding examples if one chooses. Fortunately, modern technology is extracting the crackles from long distance radio and beaming TV just about everywhere. Our German guests watch German TV in Portugal and our British neighbours watch the Beeb. Funny old world!