First Person: Ready answers for relative strangers
Any morning now the phone will ring like a parade ground reveille, disturbing dreams and the hopes of a few hours more sleep. You stagger downstairs, lift lift the receiver, hear the pips .. still time to put it down ..too late. A cheerful, breakfasted voice enquires: 'Is that Denis Herbstein?'
'Yah'.
'Guess who?'
The summer invasion of Britain by South African tourists - my relatives, friends and olden days enemies among them - has begun.
I say: 'It's seven o'clock in the morning'.
'Denis, man, don't you recognize your old Auntie Millie?'
Auntie Millie (fourth cousin, several times removed) and Uncle Sonny are at Heathrow Airport, just in from Johannesburg en route to New York to see son Ivan, the 'successful gynaecologist' and deciding to stay in London for a few days at the Regent's Palace, take in Starlight Express and Madame Butterfly, sup at Bloom's and 'have a good look at all the troubles you got over here'.
I am top of the list of the notforgotten ones (los inolvidados) to be contacted. There must be 100,000 of us living in Britain, and no matter that we
have been lost for decades, changed our accent and nationality, yea our political allegiance, we remain ever open to inspection. They want to see how Denis is managing, actually cooking a meal and washing up, anxious to know whether any blacks or hippies live in our street. Word will be passed on back home.
We nibble the placatory offering of Biltong (dried meat smuggled past the British customs in one of Auntie Millie's toilet bags) and soon enough the talk moves edgily to South Africa itself and they have their answers ready. ' .. Yes, but what about Ethiopia, Libya, Nicaragua, Afghanistan, Northern Ireland, Arthur Scargill, Brixton, eh?'
We shake hands and, waiting for the mini-cab to restore them to the hotel, Uncle Sonny takes me aside with an earnest whisper: 'Seriously, Denis, how long do you give us?'
They will enquire (in predictable order, depending on age, sex and inhibition) as to the availability of girls, tickets for the men's final at Wimbledon, how to get a work permit, are the streets of London safe at night, is there a tube to Brighton, and is Last Tango in Paris still showing.
Not every caller wants to be invited round. Some simply ring to say a metallic hello, then disappear for another 10 years. Others feel left out if
they have no one to phone when they come to England, for to know someone here is as important as the visit to the Changing of the Guard or Petticoat Lane.
But if they sound as though only a dinner invitation will do, and cannot be matched for skin thickness, there are certain well-established rules for the host. Give the impression that you live far out of London, preferably close to Birmingham. Alternatively say: 'Sure thing, come round, we live in Brixton, so come by taxi.' (South Africans are extremely wary of taxi). As a last resort, tell them a member of the executive of the African National Congress is staying for a few days and he'd love to talk about the old country.
In truth, however, there is no perfect antidote to a determined visitor. All you are left with is revenge.
Some years ago, therefore, I flew into Johannesburg very early one morning and with a gleam in my eye made for the nearest phone box. 'Guess who?' I said, with a very British accent. 'Sorry', said the voice, 'madame is still asleep and cannot be disturbed. Will you telephone later?' I never did.'
'Yah'.
'Guess who?'
The summer invasion of Britain by South African tourists - my relatives, friends and olden days enemies among them - has begun.
I say: 'It's seven o'clock in the morning'.
'Denis, man, don't you recognize your old Auntie Millie?'
Auntie Millie (fourth cousin, several times removed) and Uncle Sonny are at Heathrow Airport, just in from Johannesburg en route to New York to see son Ivan, the 'successful gynaecologist' and deciding to stay in London for a few days at the Regent's Palace, take in Starlight Express and Madame Butterfly, sup at Bloom's and 'have a good look at all the troubles you got over here'.
I am top of the list of the notforgotten ones (los inolvidados) to be contacted. There must be 100,000 of us living in Britain, and no matter that we
have been lost for decades, changed our accent and nationality, yea our political allegiance, we remain ever open to inspection. They want to see how Denis is managing, actually cooking a meal and washing up, anxious to know whether any blacks or hippies live in our street. Word will be passed on back home.
We nibble the placatory offering of Biltong (dried meat smuggled past the British customs in one of Auntie Millie's toilet bags) and soon enough the talk moves edgily to South Africa itself and they have their answers ready. ' .. Yes, but what about Ethiopia, Libya, Nicaragua, Afghanistan, Northern Ireland, Arthur Scargill, Brixton, eh?'
We shake hands and, waiting for the mini-cab to restore them to the hotel, Uncle Sonny takes me aside with an earnest whisper: 'Seriously, Denis, how long do you give us?'
They will enquire (in predictable order, depending on age, sex and inhibition) as to the availability of girls, tickets for the men's final at Wimbledon, how to get a work permit, are the streets of London safe at night, is there a tube to Brighton, and is Last Tango in Paris still showing.
Not every caller wants to be invited round. Some simply ring to say a metallic hello, then disappear for another 10 years. Others feel left out if
they have no one to phone when they come to England, for to know someone here is as important as the visit to the Changing of the Guard or Petticoat Lane.
But if they sound as though only a dinner invitation will do, and cannot be matched for skin thickness, there are certain well-established rules for the host. Give the impression that you live far out of London, preferably close to Birmingham. Alternatively say: 'Sure thing, come round, we live in Brixton, so come by taxi.' (South Africans are extremely wary of taxi). As a last resort, tell them a member of the executive of the African National Congress is staying for a few days and he'd love to talk about the old country.
In truth, however, there is no perfect antidote to a determined visitor. All you are left with is revenge.
Some years ago, therefore, I flew into Johannesburg very early one morning and with a gleam in my eye made for the nearest phone box. 'Guess who?' I said, with a very British accent. 'Sorry', said the voice, 'madame is still asleep and cannot be disturbed. Will you telephone later?' I never did.'