8March1994

London: 8 March 1994
My dear folks,

I finally got to see Jurassic Park. I went to see it with Richard Sykes whose other half, like mine, is not into resurrected mega-lizards. These lizards were something else, I can tell you. Old T-Rex (short for Tyrannosaurus Rex if you didn't know) was meaner than hell; while them pesky raptors (velociraptors, of course) were both cunninger and meaner than hell. The hero and heroine were amongst the luckiest people I ever saw. They made it out with ravenous dinosaurs absolutely breathing down their necks, the beasties having acquired a consuming taste for humans on less heroic members of the cast.

Next on my list is another Steven Spielberg special, Schindlers List. Jones has decided that she doesn't need that in her life either. She gets enough gore in the studio to last her the whole of her life - a mangle of presanitised-for-broadcast corpses and detached limbs courtesy of Bosnia and other war zones. Richard, fortunately, is willing.

Jones works - as usual when I write to you. God willing, it's her third-last shift. And by the time this reaches you, it will be her last - or even all over. The company have done a deal with her enabling her to retire early on slightly more favourable than usual conditions. There was a possibility - which seems to have gone away - that she might have to work in London next month while a colleague is away. She dreaded it. There still is a strong possibility that she may have to go to RSA for the elections. But she's ready for that - if need be.

Meanwhile, D-Day is next Friday. I have a bottle of champagne ready for her arrival home on Friday night. Saturday morning we fly to Portugal for a week and the start of the rest of Jones's life. She knows it's going to happen but she doesn't yet quite believe it. It's for real though. We have been talking to pension advisers and making plans. Amazing! It was just a year or two ago that I married her. And here we are, damn-nearly middle aged. Where do the years go? Where do they go?

The diet proceeds. The scales reluctantly concede each hard-discarded pound. The thin man is gradually emerging. Pairs of pants which haven't seen the light of day in months have been dusted off and put to work again. It's tough but it's satisfying. I can relate to what I'm seeing again. I'm also trying to get moderately fit, walking fit at least. I walked an hour to the cinema yesterday and - after a delightful supper at a modish restaurant with Penny and Richard - walked another hour home again. The cycling helps a lot. But on the bike I concentrate on survival; getting fit is merely a bonus.

As I pedal along, I ponder on the grand thoughts of some the chauffeur-driven denizens who sweep past me in their Rollers or Mercedes 500s, cocooned in their own secure worlds, usually buried in the financial pages. Such select souls are aloof; they breathe a more refined air. They do not find it necessary to communicate with James. James knows the way. Nor do they seem to need to use their mobile phones.

Their communications are clearly either with themselves or creatures equally divine. In truth, I do not envy them. On the other hand, there are the city slickers whose Porsches and Ferraris growl past, engines throbbing with restrained potency. No chauffeurs in these cars. These are designed to take the chosen few behind the wheel, not the financial pages. These are the very lion's mane, the peacock's fan. With their drivers I might be persuaded to swap places for the odd commute. Just once in a while. Just for a change.

We have been making plans for the visit of my teenage Witbank niece and nephew in July. It will be their first overseas trip and we understand that they are quite excited. So they should be. I have clear memories of flying that most graceful of airliners, the Comet, up the sweltering belly of Africa (Khartoum at midnight was a dark sauna), across Europe and down over a vast, sunlit London, whose rows of tiny houses extended to the very edge of the runway. Then came three weeks across Europe and a voyage south in the Italian liner, Africa. It was very special.

We're trying to make July very special too. We have been exploring the commercial and time constraints of a visit to Paris embracing a day at EuroDisney - assuming that is that EuroDisney is still in business. It has been losing vast amounts of money. The way things work, the quicker you get to Paris (and back) the more you pay. The conundrum is whether to squeeze an extra day's touring in by making a gritty-eyed overnight trip. The possibilities of crossing the Channel by air, by ferry, by hovercraft and by Chunnel are all being scrutinised. Jones says she does not want to visit EuroDisney. I hope I can persuade her otherwise. Friends who have been have been most impressed. We'll come back to London before flying to Portugal for 10 days.

Cathy and Rolf will be down in Portugal when we arrive. One or two other friends have been invited down, too, for the Big One. Jones suggests that we celebrate a simultaneous Big One as I follow suit in October. I'm easy. Celebrating birthdays no longer comes naturally, especially my own. I'm more inclined to let them drift quietly past. They're milestones on a road where lingering along the way starts to become rather more attractive than reaching the destination. But one does to have to mark a half century. Like it or hate it, you can't ignore it.

I'm still spending hours and hours on the computer, mainly in correspondence. But I do learn a little more each day. I noted in Kevin's recent fax that he had given laptops to his two elder children for their birthdays. I had a sudden memory, as a high-school youth, of getting a wire-recorder on which to listen to Shakespeare plays. Who could have imagined that laptops were just down the road? And what will Penny and Mark give their children, I wonder?

That will do for today. You can read about our latest serial killer for yourselves. Fortunately - or unfortunately - they seem to have found the man before they discovered the corpses - or skeletons, rather. Busy little fellow.