18December1995

London: 18th December 1995
My dear folks,

I have received fine letters from Cathy & from Kevin for which I am very grateful. I am sure that if Brendan had written us a letter, it would also be a fine one. But he hasn't. Cathy has some acerbic comments to make on this score. But as Brendan has remarked, he cannot correctly be called a bad correspondent because he is not a correspondent at all. In short, he is a non-correspondent. Like Cathy, I hope that he reads the letters we send him. I told Micaela when I faxed the family the other night that I would not be pleased to discover that my faxes were being used solely to light the fire. I received assurances that this was not the case. But I may pursue my enquiries discreetly over a good whisky in Germany.

I am pleased to get such a satisfying letter from Canada. There is a particular satisfaction to be found in flying at airline's cost, indeed, at the invitation of the airline. And I dare say, not back in the galley where one is expected to do the washing up. In this respect, I am reminded of an article I read about endemic corruption in Nigeria. The writer said how hopeless it was to try to impose parliamentary systems on a country divided among hundreds of tribes and languages where anyone in a position of influence naturally exploited it to the greater advantage of his kith & kin. He would be regarded as deranged if he failed to do so.

To cut a long story short, one might regret only that certain relations were not appointed to Nigeria Airways so that the whole Benson tribe could camp up in trans-Atlantic first class. On the other hand, African airlines do have a habit of going bust for reasons that may have something to do with such largesse. And their planes tend to land short of the airport because the whole clan has managed to get on board. I think we might leave things the way they are.

It is quite early in the morning. I have arisen in order to send Penny (Mason) her computer homework and to share these few thoughts before I go off to work. My dose of the lurgy is largely past, happily. I spent all of yesterday preparing fancy graphics to go with the Russian elections story. I can't say I enjoyed it much. On the current affairs programmes, much of the effort goes into making the product look attractive. It's a little bit like joining the navy to sail a ship and finding yourself painting it instead. However, I am reminded, as ever, how gentle my own sufferings are in comparison with those of the world without.

I shall not apologise for the place Mr Mavis occupies in our letters as he tends to occupy just as much of our lives. And last night he gave us particular joy. He is always fascinated by cardboard boxes and compelled to get inside them. I had brought down a large box which belonged to my neighbour's computer (she was short of space) and which she wanted back. It stood in the hall, with two of its flaps upright and the other two horizontal across the top, as though closing it.

Old Mave spent ten minutes circling the box, going up the stairs to see if he could approach it that way, coming down again, standing up and peering at it. Jones and I stood huddled beside the door waiting for the inevitable. It had to come. Eventually, he leapt up and immediately vanished through the top. As if to cap it, the two vertical flaps also crashed down, completely enclosing him. We shrieked. I had to tip it over to get him out again. He emerged with his dignity intact.

It's time for my bath. Then I must go out to earn my daily bread. It's grey and cold. But it's dry, at least.

T