1July1995

London: 1st July 1995
My dear folks,

It's been a lazy day & yet quite a productive one - if those two concepts are compatible. It's late, nearly 23.00, on Saturday night. The day's Wimbledon highlights are being relived on the box. Andre Agassi is winning (for the 2nd time today) a glorious victory over David Wheaton. Wheaton is the typical Wimbledon player, lithe, tall, athletic. Agassi, in contrast, looks set to play the lead in the dwarves' production of The Pirates of Penzance, a quaint, stockily-built little fellow. Yet the girls line up for hours to watch him, crowding his dressing room, dogging his footsteps, cheering his every stroke, swooning at his approach. Beats me! I guess its sex appeal & I'm just the wrong sex. He sure plays an amazing game of tennis. I'll give him that.

You may have seen the exchange between an American (Jeff Tarango) & the umpire that led the player to walk off court & out of the tournament after a dispute. Extraordinary! South African, Wayne Ferreira, played a bad-tempered game too & I was sorry to see him win through against a sporting opponent. The prima donnas piss me off. A mixed-doubles match between Brits (Bates & Durie) & Aussies (Fourent & Barclay) was the antithesis, a sparkling, good humoured, spectacular contest that had the crowd roaring approval. The men's singles may embody the gladiatorial spirit but I prefer the rallies of the ladies' & doubles matches. You may gather that I had a glut of tennis. So I did, having to shoo off occasional pesky visions of tasks postponed.

A pause there to go outside and whistle up Mavis. He's now got his nose deep in his bowl. Relations have been a mite strained these past 24 hours since I dosed him with the lethal flea potion. He didn't take kindly to sleeping in the hall & being chased out of his favourite napping spots. There are some things you can't explain to a cat.

As I said, the day also had its productive side. I extended the electrical cord to the microwave, something Jones has long been on at me to do. I tidied the mass of boxes & suitcases in the cranny upstairs & dumped the overflow in the council refuse bins over the road. I packed the blankets away in plastic bags for the summer. (Having to scratch my memory a bit at this stage!) I cycled down to Sainsburys & came back with a knapsack of groceries for the week (supping on mushrooms & potato pie with Spotted Dick for desert. That's a custard & sponge-cake concoction that tastes much better than it sounds.) I fed the basement cat & photostatted the latest family letter at the same time. I deadheaded the plants on the patio & weeded the troughs. There were some other things I did too which I'll probably recall a bit later. But that'll do for the moment.

Makes me think of "being good" when I was a boy. I guess the important bit is the sense of satisfaction one can take to bed at night. Judging by Jones's faxes, she goes to bed with loads of satisfaction. I hope so Jones, as you wage the wars of the weeds (a bit like the Wars of the Roses). Tennis has been replaced by Burt Reynolds playing his ultimate tough guy role. It's nonsense but easily watchable. I'll settle back in TV chair & get this off in the morning - just to say hi. There ain't much news, as you can see. (Jones, if the Modelo special lasts until I get down there, you might wait. Otherwise, go for it. Yes, use a cheque. Just make sure funds are available first.)