19January1996

Friday:
My dear folks,

I was pleased to get this morning’s programme behind me. It was a tough one - lots of crisis management as bug-ridden software crashed our video-cassette machinery & the frequent live crossings tested our resources to the limit. It took all our efforts to keep the show on the air. Truly, it feels like flying an aircraft through turbulence - desperately dodging the spiky peaks below. Next time you see a frazzled TV presenter looking every which way for a hint of what to say next, feel a little sympathy.

I was glad of the opportunity to cycle home to work off the accumulated adrenaline. It’s been a mite colder than of late, with minus temps forecast for the weekend. I crashed out for three hours; the tinkle of a lunchtime coffee cup rudely interrupted a dream & dragged me back to consciousness. I took an unwilling body into the shower to wake it further.

Mainly I spend the period in-between nightshifts on the planet, Og, where one is permitted to drift in a state of unmitigated discombobulation. But I was summoned back to Earth by the arrival in the post of my car licence renewal form with a January 31 deadline. It demanded immediate action as I will either be working every weekday night between now & then or farting around in France. To obtain the necessary document, one has to possess certificates of roadworthiness and insurance. So I phoned my mate, Sam, boss of one of half a dozen murky enterprises tucked underneath the railway arches adjacent to BBC TV Centre. “Bring the car around,” he said; “it may take a couple of hours”. I did & it did. In the interim, I wandered off to nearby Shepherds Bush to kill time.

Shepherds Bush is a mildly depressing experience, an maze of dens & dives sprinkled around litter-ridden park land & inhabited by droves of yucky people. I had time to pause outside each window & absorb the scenes within. The bars heaved with seriously drinking people, the betting shops groaned with glazed-eyed gamblers intent upon television screens. The numerous cafes & grocers were run by either Arabs or Asians, a good place for a conversation in Hindi or a cut of Halal meat. The shops stocked mainly bargain-basement fare that looked worn before it was sold. Waves of screaming police cars & motor bikes swept past en route to unseen dramas. On one site, a huge mechanical creature, half vulture, half Martian invader, was plunging a metal beak into the entrails of a building & plucking forth great lengths of metal. In Shepherds Bush the veneer that shields us from the harshness of mortality is thinly spread.

Sam is a Lebanese who has spent much of his life in Africa. He had obtained the essential roadworthiness certificate by the time I returned. I had to wait another hour while his henchmen reattached a loose number plate & gave the car a thorough & much overdue clean. They don’t rush things at Sam’s place. You get invited into his smoky little office for a leisurely cup of muscular black coffee & some catholic conversation.

Happily, I can converse sensibly about Lebanese politics, which brings pleasure to Sam’s heart. He’s a hard-working fellow, as his big Mercedes attests. He’s got several properties in Beirut & the mountains to which he intends to return one day, once he’s sure of the peace. He didn’t worry to offer me an invoice & I didn’t bother to ask for one. Service & value for money - not unncessary paperwork - is what it’s about.

For supper Jones prepared a scrumptious onion pie which I washed down with half a bottle of Mr Sainsbury’s Pinotage. It’s excellent. I also finished the Panitone which Stef gave us for Christmas. I don’t know how it stays fresh & mouth-watering for weeks but it does. I enjoyed the last piece just as much as the first. Now Mavis snores under his red light & Jones has retired upstairs. I shall join her shortly. My bones are creaking aloud.

After a record 11 days, a British jury has delivered its verdict on the brothers, Ian & Kevin Maxwell, sons of the deceased mega-thief Robert Maxwell. They have been found not guilty of complicity in the theft of £400 million from company pension funds. I am sorry to hear it. The little thieves go to jail. The big ones buy slick lawyers who find persuasive reasons why they should remain free. Maxwell’s bones lie buried (in honour, by the Israelis on whom he lavished money) on the mount of Olives, ready to rise again at the first blast of the Angel’s trumpet. I hope the call summons him to hell. Meanwhile, his 30,000 disinherited pensioners rot as surely as he does.

I have a lovely long fax from Cathy - which I shall read again in the morning & reply to sister - as well as emails from the Jones clan in Johannesburg. The latest Quinta ads have brought several new enquiries. Our tenants down there are still being drowned out by relentless rains, the poor things. We do hope it dries up before we head down in a month’s time. Meanwhile, I’ve most of the weekend to gather my senses before I return to the circus.

Blessings
T