7January1996

Sunday afternoon : 07/01/96
My dear folks,

My little excursion is nearly over. Bren & co. will be almost home too. It was with some sadness that we saw them off at Frankfurt airport last night. The Ford Transit that proved so valuable on their trip to Bavaria made it possible for all of us to travel up with them. Cathy left herself with lots of time to spare as there were black ice warnings out & reports of long tailbacks of holiday traffic. There was a little ice on the road but the trip up the freeway was uneventful. I played Darcy to Anita's Elizabeth, a game she liked so much that I was urged to continue in the role long after I aspired to lesser things.

We had time to browse around the airport shops & for a leisurely McDonalds supper, a gesture to Sandra who had heard much of the chain but never actually had a meal with them. It wasn't bad. Good value for money is about the size of it. Nearby was a children's play area where the Germanic wars were raging as gangs of mini-warriors hurled fusillades of plastic balls at each other. Below us, dinky toy aircraft taxied & parked, served by miniature vehicles. Then the final farewells & back down the freeway to a couple of long awaited malt whiskies. Erica & Anita insisted on a few last games on the computer &, since the following day was Sunday, their mother agreed. Naturally, they extracted several more games than had been contracted but that's par for the course.

I battled, as usual, to find the BBC on Sunday morning. The only English language station that was easily audible was one aimed at Americans, with a diet of good American news. The only interesting bit was the German weather & roads warning at the end. Just how serious this was became clear to us when we went out to the transit for the drive to Mannheim where I planned to catch the Lufthansa bus. The pavement & road was a solid sheet of ice & it was all we could do to keep our footing. There was no way that any car was going to get down the hill.

Cathy phoned for the local taxi who, fortunately, was available. He agreed to take me to Mannheim but said I would have to meet him at the bottom of the hill as he'd already tried to get up it & failed. I left behind the two suitcases full of winter clothes returned by Bren's party & set out with backpack & computer via the longer, less steep route. It was all but impassable. Cathy then had the brainwave of going down through her garden & the one below to the lower road.

Erica & Anita, caught up in the great adventure, insisted on joining me. We inched down the icy steps. Anita, deaf to her mother's warnings, lost her footing & went down several steps on her bum, to our great amusement. She was close to tears but couldn't fail to appreciate the humour & joined in the laughter. It took us ten minutes to negotiate a few metres of garden. The going was utterly treacherous. At the road, I left the girls & proceeded with utmost caution towards the corner 100 metres away. Good Germans were out scattering grit along their pavements. A little boy, watched by an anxious mother, was coming helter-skelter down Cathy's road on a sled.

For all my care, I lost my footing & crashed down on my backpack. I feared for my computer & the two bottles of extra-special booze I was carrying - a gift from the Witbankers - but the damage, such as it was, was only to my dignity. Getting up took a great deal of care. The roadway was unbelievably slippery.

The taxi driver had seen me & was trying to claw his way a few metres up the hill as I slid down. Eventually we met & I sank into the seat with some relief. Do I make much of this? Well, I can tell you that it was one of the hardest half-hours of my life. It gave me a new appreciation of black ice & how wickedly difficult it is to negotiate it. It good as locks you in your home if you live up in the hilly suburbs. Neustadt, at the foot of the hill, had only the occasional icy patch while the freeway was free of it.

The taxi driver, hearing that I wanted the 11.30 bus, put his foot down, reassuring me that we would make it in good time - we did. And here I am, seated in the courier's seat beside the bus driver - where there's room to type in comfort - cruising up the freeway to the airport. It's much warmer, just over zero, with lots of ice in the ditch but only a slight fog for the driver to cope with. Frankfurt airport hoves in sight & I shall shut up shop for the moment.

London: An easy flight on a wide-bodied Air Bus, with lots of room to spare. Frankfurt Airport was absolutely crawling with people. It took us 10 minutes to squeeze our way down a passage & through the security checks. It felt like hours. Like most of my fellow travellers, I was weighed down by the clothing necessary for the outer freeze & was stinking hot inside. When I tried to extract my "Economist" magazine from a plastic bag, I found it bathed in olive oil, a victim of my crash on Hambach hill.

I ditched the mag but took the trouble to pass the two plastic tubs of olives on to the clerk who was announcing the “boarding by rows”. Other passengers were puzzled when she added a special "thank you" announcement to the gentleman with the olives. I was touched. I hate wasting things & it’s really nice to know when a gesture is appreciated.
There was no sign of Jones at Heathrow where I scuttled through the bureaucratic barriers in minutes, free of “hold luggage” & giving thanks for my EU passport. The queue for “non EU” stretched for hundreds of yards. God help the poor people. I did a quick circle around the terminal to make sure I hadn't missed her & then headed for the Airport Bus stop.

The bus rolled up 15 minutes later. As usual, I got off at Paddington & walked the last mile home. My backpack hung askew; it had fallen victim during a careless heave to the weight of the bottles within & ripped a key attachment. I hoped to find the Rocket parked outside the flat, evidence that Jones was waiting within. But there was no sign of it. Inside, Mavis quickly announced himself. Jones was absent. I got a horrible feeling that we had crossed at the airport. Our arrangement had been loose - for me to expect her if I saw her. Half an hour later came a tearful phone-call. She was still at Heathrow. Well, she should be home soon. These things happen.

I've been through the mail & there's little to report. I've checked the lottery draw & written off last week's investment. From the look of it, there was no overall winner of the £44 million big prize & it will roll over for a third week. The frenzy will be unimaginable. Mavis is fed. The washing has been deposited upstairs.

My thoughts are with Ann & her medical test yesterday. Any news there? And with Cathy & her indefatigable efforts on her guests' behalf. And with her daughters, slipping & sliding down the hill with me. And with Bren, whom I still see hopping up & down in his socks on the patio at -4* while trying to enjoy an after-dinner cigarette. And with Conal, Sandra's loving arms draped around him. And Micaela, plotting her latest purchase. And Rolf, freezing his axle off in Norway. There's a ring at the door. Jones is back & asking me to park the car. She is cursing herself. But I am delighted to hear her. And here I shall end my letter.

Blessings on you all.