27November1997

27 November 1997
My dear folks,

I have bought a new CD. It’s called Simunye “Music for a harmonious world” [subtitled: ‘Oxford & Soweto - a unique fusion of European and African a capella’]. It’s rather nice. I saw it written up in one of the weekend reviews & found it in the small classical section of the local music store. Jones & I had wandered down to Whiteleys shopping centre to confirm our ski bookings & pick up her new glasses. Jones reckons I’ve got enough CDs already. I tried to add several to my collection during a visit to Camden market last Saturday. But she made me put back all but one - & I threw that out when it proved to be a dud, writing off the £2 it cost me to experience.

We finally settled on a French resort to go skiing after doing some reading on the Internet about other people’s experiences in Bulgaria & unadventurously deciding against Borovets. The snow cover in January was notoriously thin according to the cyber scribblers; there were long queues for the gondola, the people were dour, so was the food & theft from your room was the norm. “Don’t bother to go on the day trip to Sofia,” one disillusioned visitor had written, “because it’s full of thieves, pick-pockets & beggars”. Made me think about Robbie Jones’s trip to Moscow. To be fair there were some positive comments as well but not sufficient to persuade us otherwise. More to the point, we were able to book ourselves on an overnight ferry & railway sleeper to the resort in France, avoiding the horrors of the red-eye charter flight & the subsequent coach odyssey with the pimplies & their screeching headphones. As I will have finished the last of a series of overnight shifts just a few hours before we leave, the prospect of a reasonable night’s was irresistible.

The day began with a board for another job within World Service TV. I cycled through the early morning murk to White City (the Beeb’s administrative HQ, just up the road from TV Centre). As boards go, it was okay. But I’ve long since stopped betting on the outcome of any of them, particularly when there are numerous candidates for a small number of posts. I’m still waiting to hear the results of the board for Online that I attended in July. I gathered on discrete enquiry that the dept. is running on pocket money & until such time as it does (or doesn’t) get an official budget, candidates for permanent posts will remain dangling. I got back in time for a working lunch (prepared by Jones) with one of “my” flat owners.

At the start of the week we received the first of the brochures we’d sought from recommended inns & hostelries (written up in one of Jones’s weekend magazines). We ascertained from the innkeeper at in the tiny Suffolk hamlet of Walberswick that he had a vacant chalet available on Monday night (indeed, he had six) & drove up after lunch. About 2 hours from London was his guestimate; in the event it proved closer to 3. Just getting out of London requires an hour of negotiating motorways & trekking round the M25 orbital to find the right exit. The chalets were situated behind his pub in the only road to speak of in the village. We downed some of Chris Jones’s excellent Demerara rum before taking ourselves on a scouting expedition around the extensive common (via the village shop). We could hear the sea in the distance but it was invisible in the darkness that clad the place by the time we got back. We took tea in the gifte shoppe where the owners were preparing for the Christmas onslaught.

Our chalet was splendidly warm & comfortable, equipped with a firmly sprung double bed (the first thing I look for) & a large bath (the first thing Jones looks for), to say nothing of generous supplies of scalding water. We supped at the pub on fresh fish, seated around the fire that blazed in the main lounge. Incongruously, we were the only patrons the whole evening. Apart from the landlord (who cooked our meal), his Dutch wife & the barman, the place was empty. I was surprised. There must have been a hundred houses in the area. The landlord spoke mysteriously of a whispering campaign against the pub – he was apparently resented for being a newcomer to the neighbourhood. He did good business in the season & over the weekends but had very little custom from the locals. The pub was beautifully done out in wood panelling & leather & I was sorry to hear of his predicament.

When we went walking the following morning, we found a second pub a little further along the road & wondered how well that had been patronised. The road came to a dead end at the River Blyth, which fringed the hamlet & formed the border with the town of Southwold. A notional ferry was supposed to link the two towns. As there was no sign of it, we wandered several hundred yards up the bank towards a footbridge that spanned the river. Dozens of boats & yachts of every size & description were moored along the river, most tied to rickety stages with signs saying things like Private and Unsafe! Visitors were clearly unwelcome. Even more boats were secured on the Southwold side of the river, which boasted a lifeboat & a harbour master’s shack.

We followed a footpath that led across Southwold golf course & into the centre. It’s an attractive little town, well kept without being flashy. There were lots of people walking dogs or riding bicycles & not too many cars – a good sign. Adverts for property in estate agents windows indicated that it was not a place to look for bargains. Jones loved the grey North Sea & the shingle beach that led back to the small river port. We supposed that we might easily have a home there. We foresee that we will have to sell Shirland Road when I retire (early) to boost my pension. But we’d love to keep a foothold in England & Southwold would do as well as anywhere else we’ve seen.

We’d like to have stayed a second night but Thursday’s schedule ruled that out. I stopped briefly at Kwikfix (brakes & exhausts while u wait) up the road as my exhaust was growling ominously. But they needed to order the replacement part; I’ll take the Rocket up tomorrow to get it fitted. It’s the time of year when the car undergoes its annual service, test & relicencing. No that I can complain, the Rocket has proved itself the most faithful of servants in its 19 years. I pay the car insurance at the same time and renew my annual permit to park in the road. I also renew our travel insurance & book ski holidays. In short, it’s the time of year when an annual bonus would be really welcome. I’m sure you know the feeling. Unlike the SABC the BBC does not run to those –, at least, for its ordinary joes. The DG, John Birt, was asked in a recent interview to justify his £360,000 salary (vastly bigger than the Prime Minister’s) which he did by explaining that he didn’t set it himself & that it was market related. This drew a considerable response in the letter column of the in house magazine including the following:

I have come across two quotations which answer John Birt’s comments on pay and responsibility… The first is from “The Soul of Man” by J K Galbraith: ‘The salary of the chief executive of the large corporation is not a market award for achievement. It is frequently in the nature of a warm personal gesture by the individual to himself’.
The second is from Ambrose Bierce’s “The Devil’s Dictionary”: ‘Corporation: an ingenious device for obtaining individual profit without individual responsibility.’

I rather liked them both.