1January1994

London
The first week of January, 1994

If ever you get this, you will know that I have successfully taken my first step into home computing. Of course, this is old hat to half of you and no hat to the other half. To the no-hat half, let me tell you that trying to work a computer from the manuals is much the same as trying to teach yourself to fly. Note manuals in the plural. There's one to tell you how your computer works, another to tell you how the operating system (MS DOS) works, and a third to tell you how the WINDOWS software works.

I can compare it only to arriving in the central square of a great city from which you attempt to explore the suburbs on foot. Every street you take has six streets leading off it, and every one of those has six more, each with signs guiding you deeper in but with no hint of the way back. For the novice, the system comes with several aid and information guides (excluding those listed above) but these are either incomprehensible or so long-winded as to lead the pilgrim only down the road of despair.

That so much can have been crammed into so little is utterly mind-boggling. You start to realise that when people talk about megabytes, they are talking in millions and they mean it. Yes, I went out and bought a computer. Jones saw that the virus had taken hold and bowed to the inevitable. In my own defence, let me say that I talked to several buffs, read dozens of reports (ex BBC Info Library), scanned the papers for sales, visited all of 20 stores and waited until after Christmas to get a discount. I made a difficult compromise between what I most liked and what we could best afford and returned home with a Compaq Contura 386 lap¬top and a baby printer.

It has come with me to Germany where I am spending the New Year with Cathy, Rolf and my two nieces. I suspected - and was pleased to confirm - that Rolf was familiar with computers and windows and able to give me some pointers. Indeed, there are two computers in the Gohdes household, a late-model desk-top on which Cathy writes here letters et al and the latest colour lap-top ex BASF of the kind that ordinary mortals can only dream about. His daughters use both the above for electronic painting, using a range of brushes, sprays, rollers, geometric designs and pens to produce the art of the next century. Truly, there are more things in this world than the mind of man can easily grasp.

Well, enough of computers. You've probably had your fill. My day generally ended with them, but they certainly didn't begin it or fill it. The start was generally a cup of coffee around 9am. Because the shutters were drawn, I didn't wake until then. The first morning, Cathy arrived and politely but firmly informed me that she would have let me sleep later, but it was snowing and the scene absolutely had to be witnessed before the snow melted. Truly, it was snowing indeed. Great flakes swirled down, Canadian style, turning the world white and engendering a rare and precious sense of wonderment. I think I can count on both hands the number of times I have witnessed snowfalls and the novelty of it persists - if that's allowable.

As Cathy had warned, it didn't last. Erica rushed outside to build a snowman, but the snow soon turned to sleet and rain - and then the sun came out and finished off the remaining snow. Erica was bitterly disappointed. She desperately wanted to go sledding and wept, when we went out for a walk through the forests, at her father's insistence that she leave her sled behind for the simple reason that the snow would long since have vanished. He was dead right too. Only traces remained in the hills where we walked, enough for the occasional snowball only. Still, the walk was a pleasure of its own, and Erica soon got over her disappointment.

The weather treated us reasonably, considering the season. When it was dull or wet, we stayed inside and either did the fiendish jigsaw puzzle I'd taken along, (even worse than the one I sent to Mark - did you ever do it?) or played monopoly or poker. Erica was over the moon with the two packs of (personally embossed cards) I'd presented her. The basics of poker were soon grasped by my nieces and, with plastic counters for cash, the game got underway. Those two girls are just naturals. I don't know where they get it from. Anita got more pleasure from building up a pile of plastic cash than a dog from rolling in dirt, and squealed when someone tried to put one of her counters in the ring on her behalf. It was her cash and no one else was to touch it.

Mind you, monopoly was something else. They'd been playing it for years and didn't need the rules explained. All went reasonably smoothly until most of the properties had been acquired and some exchange of title was profitable. The horse-trading would have brought blushes to the cheeks of an Irish tinker. If I showed any sign of trading properties on terms inimical to the girls' future interests, I was hauled promptly back into line and had the law laid down to me. There's no grass growing on that pair. They have a highly developed sense of what constitutes their interest and they show the negotiating flair of pair of New York lawyers. Every so often, when one or other player was threatened with penury, Cathy would decide on a general handout from the bank, something that won general approbation. More than that, it was a hoot. There was plenty of wit and laughter to counter the innate capitalist greed. My only complaint is that the game was closed down just as I was about to become immensely wealthy.

We also went swimming one morning in the Neustadt pool, a huge affair under a hot-air canvas dome. I was most impressed. It was all spick and span - with five-star changing rooms, easily a couple of stars up on the pool I generally use in London. The shallow end, as the girls told me to my initial disbelief, could rise and fall two metres to accommodate water polo. It was true. As so often, I was forced to admire German thoroughness.

Possibly, the point is best made by trolleys at Heathrow and Frankfurt airports. At Heathrow, the trolleys mostly pull sideways and you are confronted at escalators by signs warning you not to take the trolley up or down as it's dangerous. At Frankfurt, the trolleys positively glide along and are equipped with teeth which grip the escalator steps as one ascends or descends. I had to applaud mentally. There was no doubt in my mind which part of Europe I'd head for if I were a refugee. Not all of Germany is like Hambach, Cathy warned me when I confessed my admiration of German habits. Maybe! But I think I'd still risk it.

I was introduced to Mopsy, the rabbit, a fur coat of a creature who absolutely adores being hugged. Then there was also Moisey, the next door cat, an affectionate young tom, who was equally delighted to be allowed in for some attention and affection. I expressed my suspicions that adolescence would render him rather less lovable and that a timely snip would save nine. But Cathy said he wasn't theirs to snip. The neighbours had adopted him. So be it. In the mean time, they were loving and loved in equal measure.

I ought to have told you earlier about our seeing the New Year in. The German habit is to greet it with fireworks, whether to appease the gods or merely signal their happiness at surviving the old year is not clear. Just before midnight, we gathered on the small balcony at the top of the house and then, as the church bells rang out, the valley below us lit up with such comets of stars and stripes, of whirling colours and streamers as can barely be imagined. The air was filled with whooshes and bangs and whistles. 94 had arrived. There was no doubting it. We hoped it would treat us kindly.

My page nears its end. I must tell you first though about Erica's silk-screening. Or perhaps that should be Erica's and Rolf's silk-screening, for father and daughter are inspired by different muses and there is much “nein Erica” and “ja papa” accompanying the process. The results, whichever muse wins the day, are spectacular and I proudly brought home one of them with me, to adorn our hall walls. Who knows, in time the name of Gohdes may join that of Picasso in the hall of fame.