27February1995

London: 27 February 1995
My dear folks,

I have been catching up on my correspondence, first to the sound of Beethoven concertos, then Faure's Requiem and now (forgive me, but it's true) Irving Berlin. Mother expresses her bemusement (in her latest fax - thank you Mum) over the Rolling Stones "concert" on SATV - not my kind of music either, Mum. And Cathy (thank you also for long missive today) confesses her anxiety over the disco world favoured by her elder daughter's peers. Equally foreign to me; strobe lights and beat I don't need in my life. I suspect that we are genetically predisposed to become attached to the music we grow up with, however horrible. I recall Chris and Jeremy recounting after their trip to Turkey that it was the endless (tuneless) Turkish music they encountered that nearly blared them into madness. And what a relief to get back to their preferred musical diet.

I am off again - sweet relief! - after 3 more heavy days. I decided last week that I was overdoing things, going a bit knee-wobbly, & it was time to rein back. Then, on my first shift, I developed a sore throat at exactly 11:00, like a knock on the door. As usual, the bug visited my head before taking up lodgings in my chest. Since it is my 2nd dose of the dreaded lurgy this year (fortunately much milder than the 1st) I am feeling severely pissed off. My sense of natural justice is offended. I warned the office that I was buggier than a township cur & they pulled me off the two extra days I was supposed to work this week. I am still due to work Thursday before flying to Portugal on Friday. The lurgy has been touring the office, striking down people at random & giving them a filthy time before moving on.

It's a grey afternoon. The day started out sunny, but by the time I set off on a brisk walk to the shops, the sky had clouded over, icy drizzle was mizzling down & a blustery wind was playing silly buggers with the golf brolly I was trying to keep upright. I dropped in on the doctor's surgery to pick up two prescriptions, one for me & one for Jones. But they'd mislaid the fax requesting mine - the filing clerk whined that they didn't always reach her - and I came away without it, musing on human frailty. The Church Street market (where the local butcher supplies Jones' favourite braai sausages) was damp and dismal and near deserted in rain. Most of the vendors had closed down the stalls and gone home to watch TV. I got the sausages and tried to outwit the wind on the way home again. I think I now have everything Jones has ordered for herself and our tenants. My luggage looks like a UN aid consignment when I fly to Portugal these days - more victuals than clothes.

Much agonising here over the collapse of Barings Bank, the work of a single trader in Singapore who blew half a billion plus by betting the wrong way on derivatives. I confess I'd never heard of derivatives until yesterday, some kind of fancy futures. I feel for the several thousand people who have lost their jobs (very well paid jobs too) and the many more who have lost their money. I feel also for me, watching the pound dive to new record lows against the Deutschmark. Who needs it?

I survived the scrum at Tesco's this morning to emerge with a couple of microwavable dishes, one of which I'm about to zap. What a joy the microwave remains. (The second dose of flu blew my diet straight out of the window). Mavis indicates that it's time for supper. My page is up. Let me send you fond regards and wish you good night.