Monday the
25th [Nov 1968]
Dear old
Mum, I’m typing this in the kitchen after having got up at 2.00 [pm] to
have some breakfast...! the thing is I’ve decided to have the day
off, because last Thursday I found I had a very sore throat – everyone at the
school has something like that, and on Friday it was making me feel so rotten I
took the opportunity to come home early, having nothing special to do, and went
to bed very early that night. I was due to go out to the Crowls on
Saturday morning, and when I woke up, though I was still fairly croaky, I felt
a lot better. But I think the combination of their very hot house
(and the cold outside) forced it up into my head – the cold that is – and so
when I got back here last night I was very sniffly, etc. I had
intended going in today, because this morning, for a start, we were going to a
rehearsal of Manon Lescaut by Puccini at Covent Garden, but
when I found that the first thing my idiot nose decided to do was bleed like
mad, I gave up and went back to bed. And there I’ve been until
now. Actually this is the first trouble I’ve had since I’ve been
here, and it’s a wonder it hasn’t happened sooner, because, as I say there have
been colds floating around the Centre for weeks. [I was always
prone to bleeding noses – so this wasn’t unusual.]
THANK YOU
FOR THE SECOND JERSEY! The green one with Oddfellows! [ I
presume this meant the lollies known as Oddfellows, but I could be wrong!] It’s
even warmer than the brown if that’s possible, and fits very well. You
really are a trick, you know; it must have cost you more since I decided to go
away than it was costing you to have me at home. And, by the way, if
I haven’t already said anything about the postal notes, for heaven’s sake,
don’t worry about not sending them; it’s not a strict necessity, you
know! I like very much getting them, of course, but it would also be
nice if you would look after yourself as well as your looking me, you know. And
thanks for the Peanuts – we get all the top papers at the
Centre each day, but of course they’re too tops to have anything as interesting
as Peanuts in them! Harking back to the money bit,
I was working it out the other day, and it appears that I’m living on an
average of about £8 – 10 or less a week, if my cheque book is anything to go
by, and also remembering that I’ve been on international (Crowl)
assistance during the period I worked on. If I deduct my rent from
that it becomes six pounds, which is less than a pound a day, and rather
surprises me now that I come to look at it. Perhaps it’s right,
however!
What is the
story about poor wee Francisco now? Will you be getting a new
address or something, do you know? At least he has relatives, I
suppose that’s something for the poor wee chap. [This was a South
Korean orphan that I supported, in South Korea.]
I noticed
an article on the O’Flahertys in one of the Tablets – did you
see it? They’ve got seven children of their own! [I
don’t know who these were – though I had relatives by this name, none of them
had seven children.]
[The
next section of the letter can't be posted here.]
What’s
wrong with John Stokes’ nose? Nice to see Des Ryan again, eh? [A cousin, and an uncle.]
Since I
last wrote, the crisis between Kingsley and self is over – at least, he didn’t
know anything about it really – and the crisis-maker, yours truly, seems to
have calmed down, and life goes on its way!
By the way
the fogs here are no longer the impenetrable ones they used to get, because so
much of London is in the smokeless zone, but it was just driving in one that I
found so bad. London is in a state of haze most of the time anyway,
and even on the brightest days you can’t see more than a mile or two from a
tall building. Funny thing with the Crowls, particularly Reg, they
almost get a little upset it seems if I don’t go and see them – I’ve only been
going on alternate weekends lately, because it’s just as tiring to go up there
as to stay home and go out with Kevin or Mike. I don’t really think
they’re offended or anything – don’t know what it is really. Perhaps
it’s almost like having part of his brother at home, or something? [My
father, in other words.]
Peter
Rowlands who lost his bubby – he’s not been married long either, and he’s in
his 40s too – must have been rather hard on them. [Peter was someone I'd known from the Dunedin music scene.]
David
Gorringe, Kurt, and I went to a concert version of a new Malcolm Williamson
opera on Monday last – he played the accompaniment himself, alternating with
unbelievable rapidity between a piano and harpsichord, and percussion, or
sometimes playing both instruments at once! There were only four
singers, and they all took several parts. Though the story was pretty
obscure, the music was surprisingly easy listening, and very enjoyable. Hazel
was there turning pages for him and handing him instruments to bash! [This
may have been The Growing Castle which is dated 1968. I can’t
find anything about Williamson’s version of it, except that it was based on a
play by Strindberg, was in two acts and lasted about an hour and a half. ]
On Tuesday
David and I went to La Boheme – a terrible performance. On
Thursday, we both turned up again at a Festival Hall concert, and sat in seats
two rows from the front! They played a terribly exciting King
Lear Overture by Berlioz, the Schuman Piano Concerto, and the Bruckner
3rd Symphony. This last was tremendous, uplifting,
like Wagner without actually ringing you out at the same time! We
were so close we could see the loose hair on the lead violinist’s bow, the
price tags on one of the other violinist’s socks, another old fellow only
pretending to play through the Berlioz – they took him off limping after it –
and we could also hear both the leader and the pianist
breathing Very Heavily throughout! Fascinating. [Handwritten]
Better go back to bed I think. Listen don’t worry about flying over
to nurse me. I think I’ll survive. Love,
Mike. [I remember the loose hair on the leader’s bow: it spent
the entire overture trying to catch up and never quite made it.]
