12February1995

London: 12 February 1995
My dear folks,

Sunday at dusk: There's a backlit turquoise square visible through the window, smudged with big gollops of heavy grey cloud. I noticed as I walked back from the corner shop just now (with 2 bags of new pooh-sand for Mavis) that there were some pink-tinged jobs floating around under a big moon. The latter was distinctly white, nicely dappled and quite comforting. It was welcome. Just imagine how boring life would be without the moon. Romance dulled. No more lunatics, lunar cycles, lunar landings.

I suspect that it's been quite a pleasant day. Mavis and I spent it quite unconscious upstairs, with every last ray of light blocked out. I noticed as I trotted down just before 8am to produce my last bulletin that the sun was shining through the windows and London was splendidly lit in the background. And driving home, I had to pull down the visor, causing the little radio I've had tucked up there for months to come tumbling down into my lap. Says something about British winters.

I've had a fax from Jones. It's pissing down there, cold and very miz. She got soaked walking back from Loule. The Germans are unhappy because their roof is leaking again in spite of our efforts to waterproof it. The cat has moved back in with the French whose flat is warmer and where she gets the feline equivalent of a dunlopillow mattress to sleep on. Jones is planning our March trip to the Alentejo (a region of sweeping plains north of the mountains which line the Algarve).

The News is on. The headlines: A British junior minister resigns in protest at the European Union's immigration policies (he fears too many darkies could get in); a mother has got her abducted baby back (frustrated women steal them from maternity wards) and Dresden remembers the firestorm that crisped its citizens 50 years ago (I give thanks that I was spared living through it). Winnie Mandela is causing ructions again. I did a package on her last night that led our bulletins (for want of better news) until dawn. What a tough cookie! Makes Lady MacBeth look like a social worker.

Well, as I was saying, somewhere, cat and I slept soundly and I was very grateful for it. Less than seven hours and I get the wobbles overnight! The oven has given up the ghost so supper is a tin of something heated in a saucepan and dolloped over two slices of brown bread. (Tastes better than it sounds.) (My tummy is at last taking a little notice of my diet.) After that, I steeled myself to change Mavis's litter, always a tough job as the tray is stuck under a box of plants in an awkward corner of the patio. The sand was damp but not particularly pooey as his nibs prefers to leave his calling cards in the neighbours' flower beds, staring them brazenly in the face as they rage impotently indoors.

There, that's about the size of my world. I'm off for a shower and thence to work.