30June1995

London: 30th June 1995
My dear folks,

I dropped a bottle on my toe last night, reminding myself - after years of amicable relations with my extremities - what wicked offence they take when treated badly. As the bolt of agony gradually subsided into mere anguished pulsations, I looked down to find the tormented part gashed & gory. This gave me some satisfaction. Here at least was living proof of my sufferings. There's no frustration like feeling terrible & looking good. Not that one gets much sympathy from old Mave. One doesn't. I can't think how I came to drop the bottle. It was large plastic one holding skin cream. Mind you, I'd been down for a drink & a chat with my neighbour, Stefania. Her man was away & we philosophised over a bottle of wine. It was a lovely evening. I must have put a dash more brandy than I'd calculated in my coffee later because I had to blink a couple of times this morning when I woke. Just a couple of blinks, you understand, not amounting to a sore head. One needs these little reminders from time to time.

It's the start of my weekend. Two glorious days stretch out like Mave on the carpet. Just so nice! I've got nothing lined up except a few letters & a quiet walk, maybe a ride to Sainsburys to top up the microwavables. Two weeks to go & I'm on hols. My stint on Asia Today has flown. Already, my replacement is starting to trail me. She has all kinds of ideas but her head's in the clouds. She's got a fortnight to get her feet on the ground. It could be a bumpy landing. I shall watch with interest as I prepare myself to return to the galley. It's been a pleasant few months & I've learned much about Asia where, I suspect, much of the 21st century is going to take place.

My Bizet is busy playing his Carmen Suites. The music exactly matches my mood & dances in & out of the shelves & books lining the wall behind the desk. The news bulletins show us glimpses of actress & model, Liz Hurley, who has taken herself to an expensive country retreat, expressing sadness & bewilderment at the news that boyfriend, actor Hugh Grant, was caught having it off with a tart in a car in Los Angeles, where he was promoting his new film. She has expressed a wish for privacy while she reflects on their future. This has not deterred dozens of hacks from grubbing around the gates & over the walls for a whiff of news. Later bulletins show us more glimpses of her and the newly-returned Grant talking in a greenhouse (& a double bed being delivered to the house!) What can they be saying, I wonder?

Meanwhile, long welcome letters from Ann & Kevin as well as Germany & Portugal. And brief, satisfying conversations with Mother, at whose recovery we rejoice. I do wish we could rejoice a little closer Mum. But fate has dispersed us. Hallelujah for faxes & phones (& email. One of my old SABC cronies has just got company email & promptly experimented by sending me a delighted letter. I responded in kind & said I'd add her to the Folks-All list instead of writing twice a year. The Beeb is gradually putting everyone on email too but it's not clear to me if it's just an in-house version.)

As to the Canadians, I have never heard my brother wax so lyrical as over the shriek of racing cars, pouring out peerless paragraphs of poetry. No doubt but the bug has bit. You can fake an orgasm but not that kind of passion. Great stuff, boet that you have been able to combine your love & your living, & that all the family have found their own niches in the process. We hold thumbs over the dealership!

Annie, I envy you your walks & tranquil views. I do wish you'd keep those dratted geese over there, mind you. They're taking over English waters as well & driving the little guys out. Life's so comfortable here they don't bother to migrate. Fecund isn't in it. They go from eggs to goslings to golloping geese in a couple of weeks. They prowl the lake at Regent's Park on a "stand & deliver" basis. The one Canadian import that has gone down well is young (newly-nationalised) Greg Rusedski, whose tennis feats at Wimbledon have been wowing the crowds. In spite of 31 degree temps. (7 degrees higher than in the Algarve, as the TV bulletins point out) he's been leaping effortlessly about, smiling & above all - very unBritish - actually winning. He's the only "Brit" left in the singles, he's through to the final 16 & he's rapidly becoming a national hero.

The nation remains convulsed with the leadership battle for the Conservative Party. After the tide appeared to flowing rightwinger, John Redwood's way, earlier in the week, it now seems to be ebbing away from him again. John Major gave his supporters (badly-needed) new heart with a fine display in the Commons yesterday. Mr Redwood has now warned Tory MPs that they are liable to lose their seats at the next election unless they vote for him on Tuesday. The truth of the matter is that they are liable to lose their seats whoever they vote for, but the odds on Major are shortening again. What a circus! What obfuscation! The candidates & their backers are indulging in fierce rhetoric, declaring (falsely) that they're making things clear when nothing's clear except their desire to win. We are reminded that power is the ultimate prize. People may sell their bodies for money, for power they sell their souls.

Mave is noshing his grub outside on the patio. I've locked him out after dosing him with a potent flea killer, a nasty organo-phosphate that one squeezes on to the skin at the shoulders where he can't get at it. It turns the cat into a kind of toxic flea carpet, dire but effective. And since he shares the furniture & makes himself at home on sleepers early in the morning, he's preferable flealess. One is advised to keep a beast at arm's length for 24 hours after dosing it & he's due to spend the night outside. He won't be pleased. It's not his style.

Stefania has just popped upstairs with a Dutch friend who is due to join her & Herman on holiday for two weeks. I'm looking after their garden and fat cat while they're away. They'll return the compliment for the 2nd half of the month while I'm in Portugal. Our timing is fortuitous but blessed. Our cats are pretty self reliant but do require regular feeding & watering. Mavis further requires regular letting in & out as he lords it around the neighbourhood. Even more important are the gardens, hers in the basement & ours on the patio, which cannot go a fortnight without water in high summer. Right now, I'm dousing our plants each evening to sustain them. Hell but it's hot.

I started this letter early in the morning. I'm finishing it in the evening. Jones has just phoned with news from Portugal. So let me call a halt and get this off.