Sydney
21.9.67
Dear
Mother,
How’s
things with you? Got a letter from you yesterday, which was very nice indeed.
By the way, I did get the things Jack
sent me – sorry that I’ve not confirmed it before this, but (A) I assumed that
you would guess I had since I didn’t panic about them, and (B) I just kept
forgetting to tell you. [2018: this is
curious. Back on the 11th, I'd told her that whatever this Jack sent – whoever he was – had arrived
with unexpected colouring on it.]
Still
no news from my source so I’ll very likely be coming home soon, I should think.
Went to
Cecil’s last night for dinner – walked all the way (about half an hour from
here) mainly because I missed the bus. I intended to get there for the first
part of the trip. Anne [Cecil’s wife]
is very nice – reminds me of Wendy Hiller (as she is now) for some reason – and
we had a lovely dinner. Their lounge is one of the most comfortable-looking
rooms I’ve ever seen. You go into it and look and immediately relax. Of course
it’s full of books (including the compete set of Punch from the month it began till well into this century), lots of
records, trophies, pictures etc; and it almost seems crowded out with
furniture. You have to keep going round things to get anywhere. The house is a bit of a maze; I couldn’t see much of
the rest because it was fairly dark inside, but rooms and passages seem to go
off in all directions. Didn’t have tea till about 7.15 or so and the rest of
the evening passed very quickly listening to Anna Russell (doing take-offs of
G&S operas and the Ring Cycle by
Wagner) and part of a record by Flanders and Swann. So, a very quiet and
pleasant evening was had by all. They gave me a lift home afterwards which was
also very nice!
I’ve
finally finished David Copperfield –
this morning – reading the last 90 pages or so in one go. Gee, it’s a fabulous
book – terribly sad, of course. It’s always horrible the way characters that
you’ve grown to like a lot are killed off in Dickens books. But it’s the way of
the world, I suppose. And you seem to feel it a bit of a loss knowing that
these people are going to stop cropping up in your life. You get very attached
to them.
Well,
this isn’t much of a letter, I’m afraid. I’m not doing anything at the moment,
just sitting around waiting – I’d really like either to feel that on Saturday
or some such I was either starting something here, or definitely going home.
But nothing I do seems to hurry these people up at all. So ------ never mind,
See ya
soon, I think, Love, Mike.
Telegram
dated 23.9.67 from 8 Lane Cove, NSW:
Home
Tuesday, Mike. [2018: This address seems to be relatively close to where I was staying with the Newburys.]
