Dear Friends, February 16
We are developing a routine. Lucia goes to work, and I visit the dogs and cats. I spend about two hours with them every day, depending on how long it takes my toes to get cold. I’m one of those people who just handle cold toes. I’m only cold when my toes are cold.
And that has to be the most significant feature of the week. While the Brits wax lyrical about the record high temperatures for February, with some areas of southern England registering day time highs of 16C (yowzer!), what they don’t mention are the morning lows which dipped below zero (Celsius, that is) most mornings, leaving layers of frost where ever you look. I have never had to scrape ice off my car’s windscreen in the morning before in my life. I know this fairly a regular winter occurrence in Johannesburg (if you are unfortunate enough not to have your car stored in a theft-proof bunker), but I was 13 when my mom and I left the Big J for Cape Town, and I don’t really remember what frost looked like. Capetonians are quite unfamiliar with frost. I think the rule is this – when you see grass frozen white, it’s fucking cold outside. On Wednesday I headed out of our flat/apartment at the same time Lucia left for work to go and photograph the frost in St Nicholas Park here in Warwick. (See the pictures at http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/llewellynijones.) My ears started aching with cold long before I got to the park. It may sound like a cliché, but it was beautiful. There were lots more photogenic opportunities driving to the dogs later in the morning, but I don’t think my fellow road users would have appreciated random stops to take pictures.
Tuesday’s major event for Lucia was a trip to the Job Centre in Coventry to register for National Insurance. Goodness alone knows why she couldn’t do it Leamington Spa, which also has a really big Job Centre - but let’s not try to reason with the Government. She still managed to get lost, despite having detailed maps and directions from Google, not to mention the fact that I had driven over the route with her on Saturday. But she got there – I have to give her that. I met her there after dropping of my newly acquired Honda CRV at the dealership to have a small problem sorted out. The service at the Job Centre was friendly, efficient and helpful – we are continually amazed at the level of service here in the UK (notwithstanding the Nazi tart at Port Health at Heathrow.) Afterwards, we had cappuccinos at Starbucks in the city centre watching the remains of a bus accident (which caused havoc with city centre traffic) being cleared away. (Two bus drivers had clearly been playing chicken with each other early in the rush hour with the inevitable consequences.) I had difficulty identifying all the agencies milling around trying to sort the mess out – police, fire brigade, ambulance, officials from the two bus services, ultra-heavy towing vehicles, and I’m sure the Health & Safety dudes weren’t far behind (South Africans wouldn’t understand this.) In SA, we would have just driven around the prang, mounting the pavement (sidewalk) if necessary. In Coventry they closed down the main access roads to the city centre, which includes the city centre bus terminus. I know this caused havoc from the traffic reports I listened to in the car later, but we enjoyed our coffees in peace.
After Lucia and I parted, I spent a couple of hours strolling around the city centre. It’s hard to describe what it looks like. Somebody from Johannesburg would recognise it fairly easily. It’s all sort of new in a kak face-brick way. Brits are schooled on how the Germans flattened the city in November 1940. English and US bombers returned the favour over Dresden in 1944. But it’s really quite jarring to turn a corner and find the skeletal remains of Coventry Cathedral, with its towering spire still intact, standing before you as a permanent memorial to the follies of war. It must have been a beautiful city. Now it’s a monument to face-brick and concrete. I saw on the news that night that the Government wants to spend £1bn regenerating Coventry’s city centre. I don’t suppose dynamiting the whole lot will go down to well.
Lucia says I have to tell you that I made her a wonderful Valentines dinner. I thought it was rather good myself. Duck breasts fried to medium perfection, with cranberry and port sauce and grilled Mediterranean veggies. This was accompanied by Australian sparkling wine (Jacob’s Creek, going cheap at Tescos), and rounded off with orange Lindt chocolates (special at Sainsbury’s) and glasses of port (the same port that went into the cranberry sauce). This is what we do for Valentine’s Day – forget cards, flowers and whatever else the merchandisers are trying to flog. We agree with Terry (my brother in-law in Portugal, for those that don’t know) that Valentine’s Day is a commercial rip-off. I do note, however, that Tescos has got some really good post Valentine’s Day bargains on champagne.
I have taken to varying my route to and from the Bayton Lodge (the kennels) to get to know the area better and I’m beginning to get a mental image of the roads in my head. Occasionally, I lose my bearings and find that I was driving north instead of south. But that’s the nice thing about England – there’s always another road that gets you back to where you were going fairly easily. Except if you are on the motorway – you can drive for miles and miles on these roads without finding an exit. It could easily cost you 20 minutes if you make a mistake on the motorway.
But I’ve found quite a bit of interesting stuff on my journeys that have had me searching Google and Wikipedia as soon as I get home. For instance, I had never ever heard of Christadelphians before in my life, but they certainly seem popular around here. Warwick, Leamington Spa and Kenilworth all have Christadelphian temples, halls or churches – whatever they call them. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christadelphians) I now drive with a notebook and pen close at hand as an aide memoire. Clearly age is catching up with me – if I don’t write it down, there’s a good chance I will get home and ponder for hours what it was that I was trying to remember. I invariably remember as I drive past it the next day.
Some experiences don’t require any notes. One morning, driving to the kennels, I had to brake sharply as I (and all the cars around me) suddenly approached a long tailback caused by an accident. The unfortunates were a car and a motorbike. The motorbike was lodged upright in the front of the car. I shivered and was gripped by a flashback to a very similar accident I was involved in about 15 years ago on Campground Road in Cape Town. I was studying at UCT and was on my way to work at Ferryman’s Tavern in the V&A Waterfront. I came to a halt behind a queue of cars that were waiting for turning a garbage removal truck. The only reason I braced was because of the look on the face of a black guy walking on the side of the road. Think of that picture “The Scream” by Edvard Munch. That was the look. And I gripped the handle bars, and braced. The car hit me from behind a fraction of a second later. I remember flying up in the air, but holding to on the handle bars for dear life. In my memory everything happens in slow motion. I remember wondering when I would hit the car in front of me – I just knew that if that happened I would be in deep, deep shit. I thought I was going to die.
But it never came. Much later I realised the bloke in front of me (driving a brand new VW Golf) had seen everything happening in his rear view mirror, and had simply driven up onto the sidewalk. And that’s what saved me. And my helmet. I remember staggering up and storming over to the driver’s window of the car that hit me. I had my helmet in my hand and vengeance in my heart. I remember screaming at the driver – a school teacher from Bergvliet High School – and, as he turned and looked at me, a single tear dropped down his cheek. I walked away.
What really pisses me off now, is that the bike was never the same again. Yes, his insurance paid up – but there’s always something that’s missed. Not long afterwards the bike developed a mechanical fault that that rendered it beyond economical repair – and I had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find the money to replace it just so that I could continue juggling work and studying and keeping my head above water. How does insurance pay for that?
Anyway, this reminds me of the old joke – what do doctors call motorcyclists?
Donors.
And on that bright note let me bring this to an end. Two hours ago, I was just going to write a few words.
Love, light & peace
Llewellyn
