9May1994

London: 9 May 1994
My dear folks, .
I think it was today that I understood it was for real. The moment was when Mandela appeared at the entrance to parliament, flanked by Mbeki and De Klerk, and the band played Nkosi Sikeleli Africa. I knew then that the hundreds of reports I had been writing about the elections and the count and the new parliament affected my life. They chronicled the most amazing changes to the South Africa I once knew. All those people who had been jailed and banned and exiled - people it was a crime to quote - taking their places in parliament, alongside the people who had jailed them. A novelist who wrote such a fantastical script would not get it over a publisher's threshold.

I have been working very hard. To those of you who received my earlier brief fax, forgive the repetition. I joined a colleague two weeks ago to form the election desk and for some 12 hours a day for most of the succeeding days, I watched and listened and read and wrote and wrote and wrote. I recorded the election vote by vote. I recounted the count ballot by ballot. I chronicled every allegation, every charge, every cheat, every stuffed ballot box, every further postponement by the Independent Electoral Commission of the final result. Long before it came, I recorded De Klerk conceding victory, Mandela claiming it, both graciously under the circumstances.

Then, having agreed with the Arab Service to make a 30 minute documentary on South Africa for a monthly slot, I spent three off-days doing more listening, cutting, scripting and dubbing. It is done. Today, I put my stamp on the brief parliamentary session and the election of Nelson Mandela. Tomorrow, I shall write him into history before the political glitterati and skunks of the world - Castro and Arafat! - who could have imagined it? And then life will return to normal, for me at least. How the boere are taking it as they stare in stark disbelief at their television screens I cannot conceive. The sun has swerved in the sky and begun rising in the west. The world has been stood on its head. Like all those ancient mammies recorded on TV while waiting in line to cast their votes, I didn't think I'd ever see the day. And whatever you may think of it - it was peaceful beyond people's dreams, following the initial tattoo of car bombs. For that, at least, thanks be! God knows, it was a honeymoon start and we could use it.

Jones and I voted too. We went along to the embassy in Trafalgar Square, I early in the day before doing a vox pops with a bunch of voters and continuing to work, she mid-morning. I cycled. She walked. Then after waiting an hour to vote, she walked home again. She walks most places these days, to shops, flower shows, friends - often five miles away - and then walks back. I think it a little extreme and that there is no disgrace in resorting occasionally to public transport. But I suspect she perceives this as a double failure, wasting both good money and the opportunity to burn off a few excess calories. Not that she has any to spare. Despite my best efforts, she remains a twig-like figure. I can't say I like it. In these times, however, there is a limit to a husband's powers over his wife and not much I can do about it.

So I am taking her off to France again. She leaves her calorie watch at the British shore. She was looking through the paper some nights ago when she came across a special offer and - after consulting briefly - wrote off for it. The tickets came back almost by return of post. We are to leave at sparrows on Friday and take the Sea-Cat, the huge catamaran ferry that sweeps across the Channel in less than an hour. We have booked Friday night in one of the sleepy coastal villages we so liked on our last visit. If the bed treats us humanely, we may stay there the Saturday night as well. Otherwise, we will seek elsewhere.

It is nice to be able to act on such whims. Formerly, it would have taken months of planning to find a simultaneous weekend off. Now, if I'm off, Jones is off - simple as that! Right now, Jones is getting paid for sitting at home. So we've got both the time and the money for such delightful flings. At least, we'll have the time in future and we may dip into the barrel for the odd excursion - or two - or three.

We watched Queenie and Mitterrand the other day christening the Chunnel. It was hard to know who looked more regal. At least, the day went well. We had watched an hour long documentary the previous evening on the nightmare problems besetting the launch, mainly to do with breakdowns in human communication. The engineers were tearing their hair out in frustration. An exercise would get under way and the power would be cut.....and everybody would sit around in a gleaming, space-age locomotive for five hours waiting for it to come on again. No doubt it will all work and work well once the gremlins have been zapped. But they're playing merry hell right now and costing millions. Be this as it may, Jones says she wants to travel through the Chunnel ASAP. I quite like the idea of breakfast in London and lunch in Paris myself.

Verily, summer is just about here. We had our first patio braai a few nights ago, sizzling some salty sausages that had us reaching for bottles of bedside water most of the night. Mavis, having failed to persuade us to allow him out of the front door, took up the sunniest available perch on the adjacent patio - in the lee of the wind. The trees have sprouted leaves again. Neighbours are reappearing. The crazy guy over the way who cuts his miniature lawn with a pair of scissors is snipping away. The swallows are back, sweeping and swooping and wheeling as they shriek to one another. What a long wait it's been. Today was the first day I rode to work minus a jacket.

The bicycle is running sweetly again. She had all but disappeared under a coat of grime and was changing gears with ominous reluctance. I know the signals. I took her up to Dave at the Bike shop and asked him to work a little miracle. He did. Eight hours and sixty quid later, a vision was wheeled out of the workshops. She was Cinderella revealed at the ball. Her unmentionable parts had been lovingly cleaned and oiled. Her seized up bits had been replaced with bits that hummed through the appropriate cogs. I asked Dave not to consider early retirement or emigration, and if he moved, kindly to leave me his address. Dave has a craftsman's fingers.

The Rocket also needed a little love. Her new exhaust was clattering up against the floor - yet again - and it took the exhaust shops three attempts to silence it and replace the latest worn through rubber bracket with one that may not wear through. I asked for a spare, just in case. I didn't need to find myself explaining to a French cop why I had been scattering bits of exhaust across his motorway. I gave her a preliminary rubdown last week and touched up the rusty chips of winter. One day, when the sun shines and I can find someone with a driveway to lend me, maybe even a garden, I'll give her the top-to-toe she really needs. Getting on for her tenth birthday the old girl is - and still ready, when the occasion demands - to show her paces.

Tuesday 10 May.

Another frantic day. I went in early for the inauguration and had it sprouting from my ears by lunch when I'd produced 10 different versions. Strangely, a big boss appeared mid-morning - as we were watching the live satfeed from Pretoria - with a couple of smartly suited visitors. They watched a bit of the feed and one made some comments in a strong SA accent. 'Waar kom u vandaan' I asked him. 'Selle plek as u', he responded.

Turned out later that they were a couple of SABC bigwigs. I didn't recognise either of them. I don't know what they thought of President Mandela. I'm not sure what I think myself. I was speculating about Ramaphosa's future - whether he is merely sulking after failing to get the VP's job. It turned out that one of the girls working opposite me had been in the NUM in Johburg for time. She had no doubt that Cyril had a plan. He made ordinarily crafty characters look positively thick in her experience. We wait to see.

Thank you for faxes and letters and phone calls (our line was down for two days - although to people ringing in, it sounded merely as though there was no answer). We think of you all and your distant lives lots and lots.