30January1994

London: 30 January 1994
My dear folks,

I have gone on diet. I had reached the point of no return. This is not meant to be a Lutheran charter. But every now and then a guy has to put down a marker. The appetites can make merry for a while; at the end of the day, though, the will must have the final say. And it helps when an oblique glance in the mirror pricks one's pride beyond endurance. I could no longer reconcile my image of me with what I was seeing and I knew that drastic action was called for. For the best part of a year, I've left the scales behind the loo, not wanting to know the details, and made do with my most tolerant trousers. But the truth has finally been thrust upon me.

So for the past two weeks, I have been on a strict regime. No booze (that's right; you heard me), no pudding, cakes, cream. All have been shown the door. In their place I have beckoned in a line of salads, veges and fish. I drink umpteen cups of tea and coffee. I get up in my sleep twice a night to pee. I have carrots coming out of my ears. It's only a matter of time until my tummy gets the message and the pounds and inches melt away. Already, I can see the slim, athletic profile in the distance. I like it. Just watch this space. Jones is very supportive. She had mixed feelings about my tummy. I think she felt that she should love me equally tummy or no tummy, but that tummy's expansionist policies were getting a bit out of hand. "You're not fat. Anyhow, I like you fat," she told me once, a statement I've treasured ever since. She has decided to help me by cooking only the least fattening foods and by joining me on the wagon. All of which I appreciate.

Of course, moderation in all things remains a guiding principle. We do make occasional exceptions to the rule. Last night was one. We had been invited to dinner by two friends who live in Hammersmith. The day started foul and gradually improved. We both felt like exercise. So we thought we'd walk, part of the way at least. We set out at five, armed with brollies in case of a final shower. I'd memorised the route. Jones thought that at 75 minutes it wasn't the quickest route. But it got us there. And after an excellent supper, a delightful bottle of wine and the customary exchanges, we bid our hosts goodnight.

We thought we'd walk, part of the way, at least. Jones was right. We took her route home and it was quicker, a little bit. I tried to interest Jones in a bus, but she preferred to walk. So we walked. The last mile went really quickly because, after I'd commented about the smoky pubs on route, crammed with people, we had an argument about how many times a year I visited a pub. Twelve, I thought. Jones thought this an outrageous exaggeration, questioned my integrity and demanded an account of my pub-going. Before we had settled the matter we were home. We'd walked halfway across London and midnight loomed. We had a big cup of tea, fed fatty fatcat and went to bed. I still think British pubs are smoky, especially in winter when the windows and doors are shut.

Today dawned bright and beautiful. That happens so rarely during a British winter that it's like receiving a special present, particularly on an off-day. The sun sidles in through the window and the whole flat lights up. Fatty fatcat arranges himself on the stairs to allow the rays warm his fur. You feel really good and impelled to exploit the sunshine. "Where shall we go?" I enquired. "Waterperry," suggested Jones. And Waterperry it was. I do hope there's a Waterperry in heaven or Jones is going to look for alternative celestial accommodation.

It was the first time the Rocket had been on the road since her £750 annual service and inspection. Hell, my pocket hurt. She's not called the Pocket Rocket for nothing. January is always the sore month for the car. The government demands road tax (licence?) of £130 before she moves, West¬minster Council wants another £70 for her to remain stationary outside the flat, and the insurance company extracts a fortune for (compulsory) cover, explaining that GTIs are bad news at the best of times and the worst possible news in London W9. That's my January salary gone in a puff of exhaust smoke.

So we concentrated on the lovely day. The Waterperry restaurant was doing good business. Jones had a scone, I as slimming a sandwich as I could find. They also do excellent black coffee. Then we went for a walk down our usual lane and over the bridge that crosses the motorway. Of the previous evening's trek, we felt no trace. The wind tried to blow us back, lifting my cap derisively. Shaggy horses gazed upon us; sheep noshed away mindlessly. The traffic roared past. Well, we'd rather not have had the traffic, but what can you do? Back at Waterperry, Jones made a couple of cautious purchases at the nursery. That was all her favourite things in one day, she told me. She easily pleased, my Jones. Or, choosing my words with a bit more care, it might be more accurate to say that her pleasures are simple and inexpensive ones.

Generally, the weather's been foul. I've either sailed effortlessly along the road around Re¬gent's Park on the bike or had to peddle low-geared and grim-faced into shrieking, soaking demons. I've waded into work and sloshed back into the flat. Even Mavis, desperate to go out after a couple of days shut up in the flat, has tested the air, thought better of it and retired back upstairs. There's something to be said for the British winter, but right now I can't think what it is. We're not complaining, mind you. We're aware that it's been a mite chilly across the Atlantic. Our American cousins have been enduring 50 degrees of frost. Half of them are shivering to death, the other half are being shaken to death. Maybe, we'll just let it piss down and shut up. You can always read a book or watch TV. Or find out how to work your new computer. I'm afraid the disease is upon me.

We've been planning our lives a bit: a week in Portugal in March and two weeks in Portugal in July. That's when Jones turns 50. Yeah, I don't believe it either. It's going to be a cheese and wine around the pool. She's got it all worked out, down to the range of cheeses. That's fine by me. I'm not sure about going to bed with a woman of fifty. But I'm not sure what the alternative is either. We're also hoping to make a cross-Channel trip or two. It's ages since we visited France.

The Arab Topical Unit still keeps me busy. Monday and Tuesday are Africa Programme days for me. This week, it's the bedlam in Congo, the arrest of opposition leaders in Djibouti and an OAU meeting in Addis Ababa. Anything you want to know about the Aubervilles and the Ninjas, the Issas and the Afars or the Sudanese irritating the newly independent Eritreans by exporting Islamic fanatics over the border, I'm you're man. Mind you, my person of the week is my colleague, Bridget. I had two calls the other morning from a guy who wasn't coming across in English and clearly wasn't an Arab either. Bridget speaks fluent French and I begged her to try to help him. She did too, breaking after a couple of moments into a language I couldn't place at all and putting him through to the section he wanted. I was all admiration. "What was it?" I enquired. "Farsi," she told me, "I grew up in Iran." I wish I had moments like that. You never know. Maybe a unilingual boer will phone up one day.

We watch the boere on the box at night, F.W., Constand Viljoen and their cousins. And we get almost as much Buthelezi and Mandela as you do. Before you groan, bear in mind that they're just for starters over here. Main course is Gerry Adams and Ian Paisley. If you can swallow them, you can swallow anything. Then for pudding it's Johnny Major and his bickering cabinet. Stick with what you've got.

I'm reading Jeremy Paxman's Friends in High Places - Who Runs Britain. Interesting! Paxman is the country's most unsubtle television journalist but he's generally right on target. He often hosts the late-night news and current affairs programme. He goes for the jugular and is not very popular among politicians, especially the thinner-skinned variety (if that's not a contradiction) but the populace like him well enough. The lad writes well.

For relaxation, Jones pages through her garden magazines. "Do you know what I'd like to do?" is her favourite question, generally the precursor to a garden project she'd like (me) to embark on in Portugal. She plans a sundial and something to indicate the direction and distance of places like Johannesburg and Calgary and Neustadt. We also want a fountain. I loved Cathy's in Germany. And so the days pass.

You will gather that not a lot new has been happening in our lives. Sometimes, that's no bad thing. I've been rambling long enough for one week. I'll leave you in peace a while.