Daydreams of a Realist 1 - The Deal with Tineola

Having spent three days solid on her carpetry, Mrs Allnixguts had enough.  For three days she had shaken, fumigated, hoovered, vinegar watered, and brushed, the carpets that lay on her floors, the saddlebags that covered her chairs cushions, and the kelims that curtained her four poster bed.

She was battling against the moth menace again, and loosing every fight.  No matter how hard she cleaned, no matter how many strips of moth killer she slipped under her carpets, no matter how many pheromone traps she distributed around the house, the moths were still winning.

She was no longer prepared to tolerate it.

"Helga," she shouted at the top of her voice, "Helga, something has to be done!"

Her daughter lifted her head from a book, and smiled.  "Mother dear," she intoned in her honeyed voice, which she always employed when trying to get out of helping with the housework, "have you tried Transcendental Meditation?"  "You are taking these things entirely too seriously."

"Harrumpph," or something like that, said Mrs Allnixguts.

Then she telephoned the university.

"Put me through to the Biology Department," she demanded. The telephonist recognised her voice from previous calls, and tried to stall.  But Mrs Allnixguts was adamant.  "The Biology Department!" she demanded in that stentorian voice that put the fear of God into anyone it was directed at.

Sighing, the telephonist put her through to the Biology Department.  It took some time before she could transfer the call, since most biologists knew Mrs Allnixguts of old and preferred not to take her calls.

Everyone, that is, except the janitor, who was a secret experimenter and illegally used the laboratory to test his harebrained inventions after opening hours.

He took her call, nodded sagely, occasionally asked a clarifying question, and eventually admitted that he had no idea of how to help her.

"If all else fails go to the Philosophy Department," thought Mrs Allnixguts.

The Philosophy Department consisted of five Professors who liked to use their brains.

"Militant moths," mused Byron.  "Let's analyse the possibilities," opined Dan.  "Above all, we must do no harm," interjected Irving.  "This is definitely multi-departmental," concluded Don.

Mrs Allnixguts was informed that the Philosophers would accept the challenge, and told to return in a week's time.

With her out of the way, the Philosophers brain-stormed the situation.

(1) Do moths have a language?  Ask the biologists and the chemists.
(2) If they do, how can we magnify it so it becomes discernible to humans?  Explore this with the engineers.
(3) What sort of language do they speak?  Explore with the classicists and modern language teachers.
(4) Do moths do deals?  Enlist the help of economists.
(5) What sort of deal can we offer them?  Discuss with Mrs Allnixguts.

The biologists and chemists confirmed that moths did have a language.

The engineers built an electronic magnifier that made it audible.

However, the language experts turned out to be completely useless, and failed to decipher the language of the moths.  That stalled progress for a few days, until Irving went back to first principles, and managed to decode the most frequently used sound bites he heard, with the help of a visiting economist, Isabella Kaputnik, who had a vast experience of moths.

She also helped with the deal-making aspect of the matter.  According to her, the Common Clothes Moth, Tineola bisselliella, had few wants and was easily satisfied, provided it was treated with respect. "They are just as happy eating unwanted left overs as expensive cashmere sweaters," she said.  "Provided you supply them with some sort of food, address them correctly, and don't swat or poison them, they will be quite amicable."

Mrs Allnixguts was confronted with these findings, and asked what sort of deal she would accept.

"Do they eat fluff-bunnies?"  By which she meant, did moths eat the balls of fluff found behind the doors and in the corners of houses owned by persons who don't like dusting - popularly referred to as sluts-wool.

"It is definitely worth asking," said Isabella.  "But you should also offer them other things."  "Old sweaters and wool blankets that I no longer need," said Mrs Allnixguts.  "Cut-offs and left-over crafting supplies," she added.

They set up a meeting with the moths. The moths were happy with all the offered food, but asked for the contents of the hoover bag to be thrown in as well.  This was conceded by Mrs Allnixguts.

Next they discussed the location of the food, and thus the moths.  The moths demanded a warm and dark place.  No garden shed, no outhouse, and no cellar.  Mrs Allnixguts suggested the attic.  "I hardly ever go there, and there is lots of old furniture and such like, where you can build a nest, if you like."  The moths agreed to this location, with the provision that they would be allowed into the house if the attic got too hot or too cold.  This Mrs Allnixguts agreed to, with the proviso that the moths would abstain from eating anything except the dust that collected on her furniture.  The moths were happy with this.

That gave Don an idea.  "If the moths like house-dust, which is mainly fluff, why don't they come down once a week and eat all the dust?  They have an outing, and you don't have to do the dusting!"  This idea was taken up with alacrity by both moths and Mrs Allnixguts.  So they agreed that the moths would be summoned every Saturday morning to come into the house and 'do the dusting'.

There remained one sticking point, however.  Mrs Allnixguts was unhappy about the moths' demand to be addressed in what they considered a respectful manner, and balked at addressing them as 'Their Imperial Mothnesses'.  It seemed excessive to her.  Yet worse, the moths insisted that every Saturday morning, when they entered her parlour, they would be announced and introduced to whoever happened to be present at the time, in the following way:  "Hail and Praise Their Imperial Mothnesses, Rulers of Carpets, Queens of the Fluffballs, Majesties of the Wool-closet!"  They also insisted to be told the name, rank, and relationship to the household, of everyone present.

Mrs Allnixguts resisted.  "Everyone will think me mad," she complained.

"No one would dare," said Irving, who knew her well.

Since Mrs Allnixguts could not ague with that without losing face, she agreed to address the moths in the way they desired.

Thus began a life of bliss and happiness for Mrs Allnixguts, who no longer had to dust and worry about her carpets and woolens, and the moths, who finally received the respect and acceptance from human beings that they had always craved and longed for.

In time Mrs Allnixguts' visitors got used to the moths, and several of them, upon hearing of the Deal, enlisted the Philosophers to arrange something similar for their own home.

And they all lived happily ever after, or until they died.

 I can dream, can't I?       

Annals of the Book-Club - Mongolia (better late than never!)

Why-ever not Mongolia?

A few weeks before the last Book-Club event, the Booksters and I were haunting the club terrace, decanted into deck chairs, sipping Pimms, and wondering what topic to pick next.

After a while one can easily run out of subject matters - I should explain that in this book-club, we choose subjects, not books.  Back in our pioneer days, when one of our number chose a book, and the others were obliged to read it, life had not been quite so pleasant.  To be frank about it, unfortunate choices frequently lead to altercations.  Because we are all very different.  And some of my fellow club members are decidedly scurrilous in their literary tastes.

Discussing the finer points of the Necronomicon, or delving into the secret languages of gut bacteria, or even tackling the fluffier chapters of Barbara Cartland's Autobiography, can have a corrosive effect on the proceedings of even the most even-tempered bookinistas - and we are so not even-tempered.

So we decided that we would chose a topic, rather than a specific book, for our monthly meetings, and that everyone could pick a book that fit within that topic.  During the meeting everyone can discuss their book for half an hour or so, and that way we learn about lots of books we never knew anything about, and also don't fall out over having to read books we don't want to.

I note that while we were running with the one-book-for-all book-club model, some members used considerable deception and trickery to avoid reading an assigned book they didn't like, pleading ever more ludicrous reasons why they couldn't.  The Morrigan was particularly averse to any book I chose, and did this at least three times to my favourite volumes.  Not good Morrigan, very not good!

Anyway.  There we were, ruminating about the next topic, and suddenly someone opined, "Why-ever not Mongolia?"  We pretty much all agreed that Mongolia had no literary value, lacked recent history,  was touristically uninteresting, and probably imaginary.  "It'll be a challenge then," we were admonished.  "I don't even know where Mongolia is," complained Maddy.  "Alright, that's agreed then," I summed up the situation.  The Morrigan glowered.

At lunchtime of the Friday before the meeting, we all received an emergency luncheon invite from The Morrigan.  I wondered what excuse she would use this time to explain her lack of application to the Mongolian subject matter.....

"I can't possibly cope with reading the history of Genghis Khan," she opened the conversation.  We booed and hissed.  "There are other Mongolian-related books," I pointed out.  Everyone else looked pained.  "There so are not," said Joseph.  "There is nothing except history of the period between Genghis Khan and Kublai Khan."  Maddy agreed.  "A bookishly barren landscape, is Mongolia."

I smiled my most superior smile, and pulled out The Bloody White Baron, by James Palmer, a book which recounts the story of Roman von Ungern-Sternberg, who mixed things up a bit in Mongolia in the 1920s.  "What's that then?"  The Morrigan looked at the cover, which featured a portrait of the baron, surrounded by a profusion of skulls (the baron was a bloodthirsty maniac), read the blurb on the back, and dismissed the book out of hand.  "Even worse than Ghengis Khan," she pronounced.  "I have a better plan."

"That's all very well," said Joseph, "but I have spent ten hours I will never get back reading the history of women at the court of Genghis Khan, and I am neither willing nor able to read another book by tomorrow morning!"  "Ditto", added Maddy.  I just looked hurt.

"It takes ten and a half hours to fly to Mongolia," said The Morrigan.  "Here are the tickets.  I checked with your managers, you can all take Monday off.  We leave today after work, arrive early Saturday morning, and leave Monday evening.  Then we go straight back to work."  You see what I mean about using trickery to get out of reading things she doesn't want to?

We obviously all had to agree to spend a long weekend in Mongolia.  Why-ever not?

The Flight to Ulaan Baatar

Luckily I had a few hours to prepare before I had to be at the airport, and I spent it locating some reading matter that might come in handy during the holiday.  My fellow booklovers had brought their Mongolia-themed books along - having already read them, they were averse to forsaking them completely - and it was decided that each of us would have half an hour to introduce their chosen volume during the flight.  

Luckily the plane was practically empty, so our little group dominated the cabin, and none of the other passengers (dared to) complain.  The solitary steward, having completed the emergency drill, glazed over within minutes of our readings.

The Morrigan had a Lonely Planet Travel Guide, from which she read us some interesting statistics.  Maddy entertained us with ‘The Secret History of the Mongol Queens - How the daughters of Genghis Khan rescued his empire’ by Jack Weatherford, Joseph read us the introduction of  ‘Genghis Khan: Life, Death and Resurrection’ by John Man, and last went Blondie (who had missed the lunchtime meeting but came along anyway) and extrapolated from the blurb on the back of  'Women and the Making of the Mongol Empire' (Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization) by Anne F Broadbridge.

I had decided to go last, knowing from bitter experience that my offerings did not always find favour.  I reasoned that by going last, having listened to everyone else reading from their books, I had earned the right to be listened to in my turn.  It was dark outside, and my fellow travelers had snuggled deep into their blankets, when I introduced my reading matter.  "In consideration of The Morrigan's aversion to my chosen book about von Ungern-Sternberg, I have brought along a few different articles of interest about Mongolia."  Before I settled into my task, I decided to go for a quick trip to the toilet.

When I returned, my friends looked incredibly sleepy, and upon closer inspection I noticed an empty tube of sleeping pills that had rolled under The Morrigan's seat.  Since I knew the way she operated, I surmised that she had utilised my toilet break to peruse my reading matter, shared her knowledge with the alarmed bookinistas, and suggested the sleeping pills as a way of avoiding my impending lecture.

Well, I wasn't that easily thwarted!  Whether they liked it or not, I had a captive audience, albeit asleep, and I was going to read them my chosen article.  Who knows, maybe they would absorb the subject matter in their sleep?  With an even, quiet voice, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to wake them, I started to read.  

"The lactic acid bacteria in traditionally fermented yak milk products.  In 64 samples of fermented yak milk, 216 strains of lactic acid bacteria (LAB) were identified.  They belonged to six genera and 17 different species.  The distribution of the isolates by genus was as follows:  Leuconostoc (40.8%), Lactobacillus (39.0%), Streptococcus(13.2%), Lactococcus (5.6%), Enterococcus (0.94%), and Weissella (0.46%)."

It took 45 minutes to complete the reading of the entire article, and no one awoke during the reading.  Satisfied with my labours, and full of future plans, I, too, went to sleep.

Adventures in Uulaan Bataar

We awoke shortly before landing.  Maddy looked vaguely suspicious, The Morrigan smug, Joseph thoughtful, and Blondie had a hangover.  We found out later that she had smuggled in a large bottle of gin, which she claimed was similar to having an emotional support animal.  I was nonchalant, and assumed an air of injured innocence - I am rather good at that, and it is quite necessary to be so, on rather too many occasions.

Going through customs, the officer attempted to flirt with Blondie, the most physically attractive member of our little group.  "So what are your plans?  Is there anything in particular you want to see while in Ulaan Bataar?  I can recommend the Toy Museum!"  Her answer puzzled both him and her.  "I should adore to see the Institute for Fermented Yak Butter," she said in a low, husky voice.

Luckily no one aside from me and Joseph heard her....

In the hotel we had a quick wash & brush, and then assembled at the breakfast buffet.  It was unremarkable, being of the sort one usually finds at international hotels, but was augmented by a few national specialties.  To my quiet satisfaction, everyone added some milk or cheese product to their breakfast tray.

The morning was spent touristing about on Chinggis Square, and lunch was obtained from a small local restaurant we discovered in a side street. The Mongolian food pyramid is top heavy with milk products (called white food), so it was quite natural that we all ate various combinations of mutton, cheese, and potatoes.  The tea afterwards was served with a liberal serving of milk (goat, not yak), and the alcoholic beverage Blondie tasted was called Airag and made of fermented horse milk.

We then repaired to the Feminist Club; I am an auxiliary member, of course, and it seemed an easy way to make some connections.  Ulaan Bataar is simply crawling with educated women - they far outnumber educated men.  In Mongolia, the boys take care of the animals while the girls are sent to school.  The unfortunate consequence of this is often that the women, no longer inured to certain unpleasant courtship rituals, remain men-less.  A number of them had formed the Feminist Club, which was part social scene and part special interest group.  They welcomed us with open arms, except for Joseph who had to sit outside in the garden and brood.  The club was ladies only.

However, his isolation did not last long.  Half a dozen club members decided to give us a taste of the town, and soon we all set off for a whirlwind tour of the beauties of Ulaan Bataar.  I am not going to give details, because we went around so quickly that I couldn't remember much, but let it suffice that there was more to see in the Mongolian capital than I had suspected.  The Morrigan took credit for everything, of course, and since she had both our return tickets and the credit card that subsidised us, we did not argue with her.

We finally sank into our bunk beds - The Morrigan had bought the cheapest room going, and it was a common one for all of us.  They all grumbled a little, but finally fell asleep.  I was mightily pleased to have them all in one space again, and decided to continue to read them excerpts of my Mongolian scientific articles (after they had dropped off).

"In another study carried out on the diversity of Mongolian traditional fermented dairy products using pyro-sequencing, it was found that there was a correlation between animal species and the genus Lactobacillus which was found to be the core foundation in Mongolian fermented milks. L. kefiranofaciens, L. helveticus, and L. delbrueckii were the predominant species sequenced using NGS for ethnic Khoormog, Airag, and Tarag fermented samples, respectively."

After I had finished reading them the article, I, too, went to sleep.

Sunday was overcast and rainy, so we decided to spend the day in the Toy Museum, followed by the Mongol Costumes Museum, The Memorial Museum of the Victims of Political Repression, and The Institute for Fermented Yak Butter.  I had expected greater resistance to this last choice, but it seemed that traipsing around town for two days straight had undermined their resistance.  Or perhaps my plan was working?  I was determined to continue my bed time readings that night.

Which I did.  "In a clinical study on this strain, it has been found that LCZ carried an ability to modulate the composition of fecal microbiota in both elderly and adult subjects. The strain exhibited growth-suppressive effect on pathogens such as Acinetobacter and Pseudomonas."

Monday morning was beautifully sunny and put us all in a wonderful mood - our last day in Mongolia had arrived!  The happy mood was unfortunately spoilt over breakfast, when The Morrigan overheard Blondie (the most susceptible member of our group) give a fellow European tourist a little talk on the benefits of fermented yak products.  She was using long words and liberally sprinkled her sermon with Latin words which The Morrigan suspected she did not understand, but which seemed strangely familiar to her.  "Randomized, double-blind clinical trials using L. plantarum showed that there was significant lowering of sepsis and lower respiratory tract infections among infants in rural India," she heard Blondie saying while slurping an extra large serving of Mare's yogurt.

Now The Morrigan, say of her what you will, has an active intellect and an incisive mind.  Her suspicion aroused, she looked around the breakfast table.  All members of the Bookclub were eating super-human sized portions of milk products - all non-Bookclub member tourists had given such products a wide berth, and were tucking into bacon and eggs, and similar western fare.  She glanced at her own plate, which was laden with cheese derived products, and at her glass, normally full of orange juice, now mysteriously full of double-distilled goats milk.  She then turned towards me, not just her face, but her entire body, and said in a cold hard threatening voice: " This is your doing, dastardly DB."

I shrieked and shivered inwardly, but admitted nothing.  "Whatever do you mean, is anything the matter?"  

But she just snorted.  Obviously she was on to me - would all my hard work be undone?

The Trip Home

Back on the plane Monday evening we were all rather tired after our eventful long weekend, especially I, since The Morrigan had forced me to swallow three sleeping pills or "remain in effing Mongolia 'till you rot!"  She had not forgiven me for having tried to brainwash her into liking microorganisms by nefarious means.

Soon we had all dropped off.  The last thing I heard, before losing consciousness, was the sonorous voice of Joseph, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to wake us, reading from an article I had entrusted to his care earlier that day, while The Morrigan was searching my bag and confiscated and burned all readable material she found.

"In human intestinal epithelium, the interaction between adjacent cells and cell-basement membranes form a crucial barrier that prevents the translocation of the microbes to the sub-epithelial layer. This adherence is governed by tight junction, gap junction, adherence junction, and desmosomes. The mechanistic role of probiotics reported in various studies associated with the strengthening of mucosal barrier function is mainly directed toward examining the ability of probiotic bacteria to prevent alterations in bridging proteins and ....."