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!