4March1996

My dear folks,

What a busy little day it has been. It began at 0700 when I let myself into one of “my” flats down the road where the electricity was to be reconnected & the carcasses delivered for Sharps fitted bedroom furniture. The Electricity clerk had emphasised during a prior phone conversation that the technician could call at any time between 0700 and 1300. I settled down with my laptop to catch up on correspondence.

In the event, it was Sharps who arrived first, in a large lorry for which no nearby parking could be found. We hung around in the drizzle for 15 minutes until a double space appeared over the road. From there, I helped the driver & his mate lug the 60 pieces concerned up 2 flights of stairs, partly because I needed the exercise & partly because I hoped to persuade them to take away the old cupboards. The mate was keen (especially after a small inducement was offered) but the driver, a surly type, declined. His mate said he wanted to complete his other deliveries and get home. So I spent 2 hours taking them to pieces myself and will get rid of them in due course. The installer arrives tomorrow & expects to complete the fitting in two days.

The electricity technician made his appearance mid-morning. I watched him link up the flat again, a small matter of snipping a sealed wire, removing a bracket and sticking the supply line back into its socket. I remarked that the SA electricity authorities had encountered difficulties trying to cut off “unpaying” township residents who reconnected themselves as fast as Eskom disconnected them. He promptly launched into tales of London’s estates where the official means of disconnecting the “ungrateful” is by removing a fuse. The ungrateful, well aware of this, themselves removed the fuses of the grateful at regular intervals and reinserted them in their own “de-fused” boxes. London’s electricity service spent as much time reconnecting the innocent as disconnecting the guilty. “At least it kept everyone busy,” he remarked.

I got back in time for the lunchtime news bulletins and a call from a downstairs tenant whose oven had collapsed - on top of various other major & minor collapses already being attended to. A peek in the kitchen confirmed the event. I’m sending off a lengthy fax this evening to the owner listing recent expenses. She’s not going to like what she sees. It’s tough owning property as we’ve discovered on our own account.

This afternoon, I caught up on masses of banking, “flat” & Quinta correspondence. I’m almost up to date. I feel quite virtuous and relieved of a heavy burden. I don’t like falling behind. The flat feels Jones’s absence, not only in spirit, but also in all the little matters that no longer attend to themselves. The bed no longer makes itself, supper no longer cooks itself. Mavis had been plaguing me & the neighbours for the attention he used to get from Jones & has run short of. He likes nothing better than a warm lap, pulling your arm down so he can snuggle in the crook of your elbow.

It was back to work yesterday for what proved a relatively civilised afternoon. I was working an 1100 to 2300 cross-shift, mercifully, for the newsroom had gone nuclear earlier in the day to cover the Jerusalem bus bomb. There’s another in Tel Aviv tonight. Hamas is doing for Netanyahu’s right wing opposition what it stood little chance of doing for itself, winning the forthcoming election. What bitter irony! The peacemakers may be blessed in the next life, but not in this one. I had intended to follow Jones’ example & go on the wagon for a while but while searching a cupboard for Mavis’s food I discovered a virgin bottle of Cardhu whisky. The wagon will wait.

Blessings ever!
T