27March1995

T E & B J Benson
Flat 4, 90 Shirland Road, Maida Vale, London, W9 2EQ
Phone/Fax: 0171 - 2864592 E-Mail: t.benson@bbcnc.org.uk
27/03/95 Monday evening:

My dear folks,

I arose this morning to find coyly curled on my desk and awaiting my pleasure a scintillating fax from my brother in Calgary. And barely had I begun to read it to Jones than there came spilling out on its heels a sparkling fax from my sister in Neustadt. What a wealth of riches! I ask you how ever did we manage in the snail-mail days when such treasures lay solely in the gift of the postman? (Woe betide us if he was ill disposed or on strike!) Your correspondent in London (his reputation sorely challenged) was inspired to respond immediately on his return from work.

Tuesday morning early: Which is as far as he / I got. I had barely sat down when there came yet another phone enquiry about the Quinta. We have put a couple of ads in the BBC magazine & the phone has been busy of late. In fact, we were pretty full before placing the ad & the rest is filling up fast! Hallelujah! I had a word with the builder who said the doors were on MCP & the windows going in & Jones should be able to move in on her return although he will take the first 2 weeks of the month off. He needs to do another urgent job before returning to complete the patio & workshop.

Thence I had to rush down the road to return a deposit to some departing tenants & inspect the empty flat. The tenants were young & had been quite sweet...in fact, a bit too innocent for their own good. Luckily, they were blessed with the nicest landlord, for which they can be very grateful. What's more, the landlord found himself marching a mile down a darkening Maida Vale at the corner of a bookshelf, assisting two of the tenants to transfer it to their new address the slow way. This was beyond the call of duty, as the tenants gratefully observed. But since they (guy & girl) were otherwise in danger of collapsing on the pavement, my heart went out to them.

Back to supper, more phone calls &, I must confess, two hours battling with the latest facility from Auntie (my service provider to the Internet), software which I had managed to download & which will allow me infinitely superior communication with Auntie if only I can get it to work. I found in downloading the programme, in trying to decompress it & setting it up that I was working constantly on the grey edges of my competence....much frustration relieved by some bursts of creative satisfaction.

I joined friends last Saturday at Twickenham to watch their 14 year old son represent his school in the national U/15 school rugby finals - his team having enjoyed great success. Little wonder. Its members were talented, highly organised & HUGE. They had swept a succession of other teams aside & I felt for the much smaller opposition who trotted out on to the field to face them. The poor lads were duly steam-rollered, a process that pleased the parents sitting around me no end. By that's by the by.

The parent, Julian, is in the process of introducing email to his office & his home. He reckons the facility will save the firm a six-figure sum annually, not to be sneezed at. But he was having difficulty getting his personal email facility to work. I gave him such advice as I could. Last night, I checked my messages to find a jubilant first communication from him. I sent a congratulatory response.

What's more, I can transfer him to my slowly growing list of E-Mail correspondents (a role my otherwise cyberfreakish Canadian brother is fiercely resisting, to my distress!). Since email letters are blissfully easy to send & travel for a fraction of penny (instead of 50p for air mail & more for faxes, it's a saving I'm keen to make.)

I awoke to hear the last presentations in the Oscars, best actor (Tom Hanks) & best director & film, all to Forest Gump. I knew it was highly tipped & haven't yet seen it, so I will withhold judgement until I have. (But I'm suspicious, having found the equally feted Philadelphia - in which Hanks took last year's Oscar as well - full of snivelling sentiment...a fine example of snot & trane in which I suspect the politically correct lesson on the tragedy of Aids took the prizes. What's more, we have seen two of the other nominations, Pulp Fiction & Quiz Show - and were highly impressed by both. I fear the schmaltz has it! Must see it this weekend regardless.)

The national weather map is whiter than a ghost. We are due for a day of snow storms turning to rain this evening. Since I have to cycle to the dentist shortly & then to work, I am not pleased. I think of TS Eliot's warning that April is the cruellest month (I know it's still March) a line I understood only after coming to live in England.

I shall hurry to get these paragraphs off to my faxables before the pumpkin hour of 8 a.m. when day prices apply. Let me recount two trivial tales. I went around to other tenants a few days ago to try to fix a problematic bathroom extractor fan. I carefully unscrewed the holding bolt and set it down on the end of the bath furthest from the plug. Then I got to work. The poor fan was stuffed with 10 years of dust. Having cleaned it thorough, I put the cover down on the edge of the basin. There it tottered - before toppling on to the rim of the bath where it tickled the nut - which dribbled down the length of the bath and vanished down the plughole. (I had to dismantle the bloody bath and trap to get it back. What a pain!)

The finger of fate descended on Mavis in equally unexpected fashion. I was bending over to give him the customary stroking prior to putting down his dinner for his enjoyment. He hardly knows whether the stroking on the anticipation is more pleasurable. I leaned further for a final "love you lots Fatty in spite of your numerous sins" head-scratch when my wallet dived out of my waistcoat pocket & thumped him on the head. More confused than bruised! He didn't know what he'd done wrong.

There let me sign off. Thanks again for your letters. (Thank you Cathy for your note which has just rolled through. Tell Erica that Onkel will come storming over there if any cheeky German youth so much as thinks of attracting his niece's attention!!)

Much love,

T
28.03.95

Tuesday evening. The weatherman was dead right. I got sleeted on all the way from the dentist to the Beeb, a good 30 minutes during which I again gave thanks for Nakiska Gold and double-knitted gloves. I slopped into the newsroom like the abominable snowman. Then I got pissed on all the way home again, raincoat draped over my knees to deter the worst of it. My only consolation was to peer into the windows of the smart cars snarled up along the way, a peek into the private worlds of luxury going nowhere. I wondered if my experiences were bringing me any nearer to the common man. Or was I the common man? We philosophers have a dreadfully difficult time of it.

Canadians, we're on your side in the fish wars. In fact, British fishermen, enraged that the European Union has allowed the Spanish to fish in the so-called Irish Box, are hoping the Canadians will ram all the Spanish trawlers & sink them. Funny old world.

Blessings ever !