Miscellaneous Musings

Café Culture.     I am having another lazy day at home with the papers.  The weather is iffy and bleak, I had a hard week at work, and I am so not in the mood for anything but the papers.  In years past I would have battled the elements and dragged myself to the Grand Café to eat a large breakfast, drink several cups of café latte, and read every newspaper in the house.  But some time ago they got this idea that their customers go there because they don’t know how to cook, rather than to experience a pleasant few hours, and changed their service.  They stopped making my favourite breakfast (poached salmon, boiled egg, green beans), stopped supplying free newspapers, turned up the music, and generally made one feel that one was outstaying one’s welcome after 45 minutes.  So now I cook my own salmon, buy my own newspapers, brew my own coffee, and stay at home. 

The Archers.     I stopped listening regularly to this radio soap opera some years ago when they killed off Nigel because ‘he was so popular’?!?!?, but in a house like mine where the radio is on more often than not I still sometimes get snatches of the various storylines.  What I don’t get is, why are there so many problems in this programme?  I have enough problems of my own, thank you very much.  When I turn on the radio I want either news or comfort.  Soap operas should be soothing, cosy, and reassuring, like hot milky tea and hobnob biscuits.  After a hard day’s work I want to be able to turn on the wireless and relax, sit back in an easy chair with a cup of hot cocoa and an after supper morsel at my elbow, and listen with quiet contentment, knowing that in this make-belief world of Common Country-folk at least life is good and the people decent.  Instead I get a steady diet of catastrophes, interpersonal strife, and rampant human nastiness.  Who wants to listen to that?

Polygamy & Homosexuality.     The Observer has a special spread about African attitudes to homosexuality this Sunday.  This is a huge topic, but the one aspect that really made me prick up my ears was the comment made by Simon Lokodo, a minister of Uganda famous for his anti-homosexual stand.  He said, and I paraphrase, in the West you abhor polygamy, in Africa we abhor homosexuality; each to his own.  I would have thought that polygamists would encourage homosexuality (in men, at least).  Since there are roughly equal numbers of men and women, every practicing polygamist deprives several other men of a mate.  If those other men are gay they don’t need a wife, and ergo won’t cause trouble for the polygamist.  Interestingly enough, in pre-colonial times homosexuality was common and encouraged amongst warriors, partly no doubt to foster team spirit (like among the ancient Greeks) but also I suspect to protect the polygamists from the wrath of the warriors.  Lesbianism, too, seems to me more compatible with polygamy than monogamy.  If you have loads of wives, who will feel neglected by you because of their sheer number, surely it is better if they take pleasure with other women, rather than with men who might land you with an illegitimate child?

Manipulating parasites.    Neuroparasitology (the science of how parasites manipulate the behaviour of their victims) has been much in the news recently; unfortunately it is such a new subject that there aren’t any books about it yet, just articles in scientific journals.  I shall do a full length blog post on the subject soon, after the Bodleyan has yielded up some info.  In the meantime, consider the following two interesting factoids.  (a)  Taxoplasma gondi is a one-celled animal that infects warm blooded animals, mostly cats.  The creature grows inside the cat and exits via the anus.  Then it waits for a rodent to ingest it.  However, it can’t develop inside a rodent, only inside a cat.  So it changes the behaviour of the rodent to run around in broad daylight in places that smell of cats’ urine, thus maximising its chances of being eaten by a cat.  Approximately a quarter of humans are also infected with this one-celler, and if the human is pregnant this can damage the foetus.  Also, there is some evidence that infected humans (about a quarter of the population in the UK) behave more recklessly and are involved in more accidents – like the mice!  (b)  Tapeworms and similar parasites produce chemicals that suppress the immune system of their victim to an extent, to make sure they don’t attacked.  This is similar to the human foetus producing chemicals that stop the mother’s immune system attacking it – sometimes this doesn’t work and the foetus is spontaneously aborted!  An interesting side effect of a parasitic infestation can be a reduction in the auto-immune diseases of the victim, like Crohn’s and asthma (again, similar to a woman’s diseases being in abeyance while pregnant and subject to the foetus’ chemical manipulations).  By the way, there is a theory that says the reason why these diseases are more common among richer populations is that the part of the immune system that is supposed to deal with internal parasites has got nothing to do (no parasites in most of us) and out of sheer frustration attacks our own tissues.  Fascinating stuff, don’t you think?

Perfume Fish.     I am happy to report that my Perfume Fish – nicknamed Freddy in memory of my sadly departed goldfish – is working out very well.  His mouth opening is just large enough to stuff a bit of cotton wool through, and his belly capacious enough to contain enough of the fluffy stuff to soak up the three or four drops of perfume needed to see me through the day.  The mouth opening is not wide enough to use a little funnel or even the perfume bottle itself, but I fashioned a little funnel from a bit of plastic and it works very well.  The only drawback is that perfume smells different on people and fish.  When I put it on my skin it mingles with my body odour, resulting in a – to me – very delicious fragrance, whereas when I use my ‘gefilte fish’ the smell remains exactly as it comes from the bottle.  Incidentally, it occurred to me that filling the fish with mosquito repelling scents when visiting places frequented by these menaces might work, too!

Art Fakers.     Apparently there are increasing problems with faked paintings etc, partly because there are any number of experts who turned bad and actively participate in misleading the buying public by giving fallacious ‘expert’ opinions.  This is an interesting topic; my default position is that a work of art should be judged on its own merit, not on whether a particular individual has created it.  If the craftsmanship, materials used, skill employed, etc is exactly the same, and the artist is long dead, ie isn’t deprived of the fruits of her/his labour, what is the problem?  Why should a painting be worth millions if painted by one person, but worthless if done by another?  I tried a little thought experiment to test my point.  (a)  Imagine we discover a new cave painting, apparently much older than the 40,000 years they are usually thought to be, a find which would lead us to believe that, say, the australopithecines were ardent artists, and made us change our views of the early history of our human ancestors – and it turned out to be a 20^th century prank!  (b)  Now imagine that there was an artist 40,000 years ago who painted on the inside walls of caves.  So amazing were the paintings that s/he spawned lots of copycats, who painted just like s/he did, using the same materials, techniques, compositions, and painted in similar locations.  If we found out about this, would we destroy the copycat cave art?  (c)  Lastly, imagine there was an artist who lived 40,000 years ago and discovered an ancient cave painting, hundred of thousands of years old, and liked it so much s/he decided to paint a mural in the same style etc as an homage to the original painter.  If we found out about this, would we destroy this painting?  Or would we treasure it as the only surviving painting of its kind, since the ancient original had long since been destroyed?  Food for thought.

Winter Flowers!

Yesterday I wandered around before work to take a few photos of the gardens near my place of work.  My friend C has a special interest in them, so I thought I'd post them as a special treat for her.  Not bad for mid-February, is it?  Enjoy!

Les Amoureux de Paris - Happy St Valentine's Day!

For this year’s St Valentine’s Day I decided to research the characters depicted on one of my favourite scarves, Les Amoureux de Paris, by Maurice Tranchant.  It shows a map of Paris and images of famous lovers who lived there.  It is quite a useful scarf – it will guide you from the Gare du Nord to the Blvd Lefevre without getting lost.

It features 23 sets of lovers, and I read up on all of them!  Rather amazing how many different forms love relationships can take, from the frankly selfish and lust-based to the deeply caring and enduring.  One day I hope I’ll get my act together and review the book ‘Can love last, the fate of romance over time’, by Stephen A Mitchell, the most insightful book on the topic I have ever come across.  But until then you will have to make do with the précis (too simplified sometimes, no doubt) of the stories of the 46 lovers depicted on my scarf.

I have to say that many of the lovers depicted behave in extremely silly ways, which may help explain the bad name romantic love has in some quarters.  Romantic love is not an excuse for being idiotic and irrational, but can be the most wonderful of all experiences if managed sensibly.  But I suppose such lovers don’t make for good stories ….

Andre Chenier and Aimee de Coigny.     Chenier was a poet who lived during the French Revolution.  He quickly became disgusted with it, and ended up in prison, where he met Anne Françoise-Aimée de Franquetot de Coigny who became his muse.  His final poem, La Jeune Captive was written in jail. On his way to the guillotine, Chénier handed it to de Coigny, who passed it along to a friend. Regardless of the feelings of Chénier for de Coigny, she neglected to even mention his name in her memoirs.

Balzac and Madame De Berny.     Louise Antoinette Laure de Berny was Honore De Balzac's first love, and a loyal and steadfast friend who had a huge influence on his life.  She was 42 when the 22 year old Balzac fell in love with her and already a grandmother.  Balzac courted her for months and in the end they become lovers.  He said of her that ‘she has been mother, sweetheart, family, friend and counsellor; she has formed the writer, she has consoled the man, she has created my taste; she has wept and laughed with me like a sister, she has come day after day and every day to lull my sorrows, like a beneficent sleep.’

Chopin and George Sand.     The composer and the novelist had a famous ten year long relationship, still much debated by their respective biographers.  I won't add to their labours!

 Duchesse de Langeais and A de Montriveau.     La Duchesse de Langeais is a 19^th century novel by Honore de Balzac.  Armand de Montriveau, a war hero, falls in love with the Duchess Antoinette de Langeais, a coquettish, married noblewoman who does not return his love but plays him mercilessly.  When he eventually pretends to lose interest, she falls in love with him and makes a fool of herself until her family pack her of to a Spanish nunnery.  Montriveau who continues to love her finds the duchess in the nunnery in the guise of a nun.  However he is a bit late and only manages to recover her corpse.

Heloise and Abelard.  Almost too universally known to attempt a precis, but here it is.  Abelard was one of the greatest thinkers of the 12th century.  He seduced Heloise, whom he was supposed to tutor.  She got pregnant, the pair secretly married, her relatives castrated Abelard, Heloise became a nun and Abelard a monk.  Afterwards they corresponded extensively, encouraging each other in their dedication to God and the Church.  

Henry IV and La Belle Gabrielle.    In 1591, Henry IV fell in love with Gabrielle d'Estrées.  Although he was married toMarguerite de Valois, Henri and Gabrielle were openly affectionate with each other in public.  Fiercely loyal, Gabrielle accompanied Henri during his campaigns. She was an intelligent and practical woman, and Henri confided his secrets to her and followed her advice.  Henri and Gabrielle had several children, which Henri had legitimized by parliament.  Gabrielle became Henri’s most important diplomat, and an orator of great brilliance.

J J Rousseau and Sophie Houdetot.     The Comtesse Houdetot is mainly known for having inspired an intense – though short-lived – love in the bosom of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the philosopher who argued that private property was the start of civilization, inequality, murders and wars.  I have to say I am a bit miffed – I think he should have been paired with Thérèse Levasseur, a seamstress he had five children with (which he all donated to an orphanage!) and who was his domestic partner for 33 years.

Josephine and Bonaparte.    Too well known to describe.  I am not even going to try!

Julien Sorel and Madame de Renal.     Stendhal’s 19^th century novel the Red and the Black describes the life of Julien Sorel who comes from a poor family but enters society, managing to win the love of a married woman, Madame Renal, and later of the daughter of his employer, a marquis, despite his lowly station.  He almost manages to marry this daughter, but Madame Renal warns the marquis that Julien is a social-climbing cad, and the wedding is off.  Julien then tries to shoot Madame Renal, who survives, and, love rekindled, visits him in jail until he is guillotined.

Lamartine and Elvire.     Alphonse de Lamartine was a writer, romantic poet, and politician of the 19^th century who helped found the Second Republic.  Elvire was the name he gave to a married woman he fell in love with, and he stylised her into a universal ideal of womanhood when she died a year after they met.  Since she is dead, he must pin his hopes on a spiritual reunion in the afterlife.  It reminds me a bit of Goethe’s Werther, and also of Petrarch and Laura.

Lauzun and La Grande Mademoiselle.     Anne Marie Louise d'Orléans, Duchess of Montpensier, known as La Grande Mademoiselle, was the eldest daughter of Gaston d'Orléans, and one of the greatest heiresses in history.  But she never married, having only ever loved one man, the impoverished scion of a noble family, the Duc de Lauzun – known for his wit and physical attractiveness despite being "the smallest man god ever made”.  However Louis XIV did not approve of the proposed marriage and kicked Lauzun into the Bastille for ten years.  La Grande Mademoiselle sacrificed much of her wealth to get her beloved released, but although freed they still weren’t allowed to marry.  Lauzun courted other women, the lovers quarrelled, and thus their love story ended.  

Louise and Julien.     Louise is an opera by Gustave Charpentier.  The opera depicts Parisian working-class life, telling the story of the love between Louise, a seamstress living with her parents in Paris, and Julien, a young artist.  Louise’s parents don’t approve of Julien, so the lovers run away to Montmartre and lead a free life of love and art.  They love Paris as much as each other, and after an abortive attempt of Louise’s parents to separate them live happily ever after in their garret.

Madame de Staël  and Benjamin Constant.    Madame de Staël was a French woman of letters and one of Napoleon's principal opponents.  Celebrated for her conversational eloquence, she participated actively in the political and intellectual life of her times.  She had many lovers, but Benjamin Constant, the politician and writer, was the most constant and devoted.  They had a 17 year relationship, but she was not really physically interested in him and refused to marry him many times.  She had a volcanic temper and unlimited energy, and he seems to have been a sensitive neurotic, and they managed to make each other quite miserable.  But when she died, years after they broke up, he considered himself to be dead as well.

Madame Recamier and Chateaubriand.     Juliette Recamier was a great society hostess, known for her charm, beauty, and intelligence, and many famous people attended her Salon, among them Chateaubriand, the father of French romanticism, whose muse she became.  Whether they were lovers is much debated, they certainly never lived together.  Victor Hugo witnessed one of their final meetings:  ‘M. de Chateaubriand, at the beginning of 1847, was a paralytic; Mme.Récamier was blind.  Every day at 3 o'clock M. de Chateaubriand was carried to Mme. Récamier's bedside.  It was touching and sad.  The woman who could no longer see stretched forth her hands gropingly towards the man who could no longer feel; their hands met.  God be praised! Life was dying, but love still lived.’ (Hugo's Memoirs)

Manon and Des Grieux.     Des Grieux comes from noble and landed family, but forfeits his hereditary wealth by running away with Manon.  In Paris, the young lovers enjoy a short time of bliss, while Des Grieux tries to satisfy Manon's taste for luxury.  He manages to do so for a while by borrowing and cheating, but eventually Manon leaves him for a richer man because she cannot stand the thought of being poor.

Margarite Gautier and Armand Duval.     The famous characters of the story by Alexandre Dumas fils, The Lady of the Camellias.  Although a courtesan, Margarite deeply loves Armand and is willing to forego her luxurious lifestyle to lead a simple but happy existence with him.  But Armand’s father convinces her that both Armand and his family will be better off if she returns to her demi-monde life, and she sacrifices her love – and indeed her life – for his future happiness.  I read the book as a child and was quite tear-stricken about it, especially when Armand has her grave dug up …

Michelle Morgan and Jean Marais.     Two French actors of the 20th century.  Marais played inter alia Alexandre Dumas’ the Count of Monte Cristo, d’Artagnan and Fantômas.  Of Michelle Morgan he once said that she was the only woman he could have loved.  Michelle Morgan was a leading lady for thirty years, and starred in To the Eyes of Memory with Marais.  Whether she returned his sentiments is not known (to me, anyway).

Mimi and Rodolphe.    Characters in the opera La Boheme by Puccini.  Mimi is an embroideress and Rodolphe an aspiring playright and they fall in love with each other in 19^th century Paris.  Mimi does what she can to help Rodolphe get his plays staged, but he keeps misinterpreting her motives, breaks up with her, and only understands what she has done for him when she has died of consumption.

Moliere and Armande Bejart.     The playwright and the actress were married and had three children.  Apparently Moliere had a relationship with Armande’s mother first, and kept it up after his marriage to Armande.  Doesn’t sound all that romantic to me.

Ninon de Lenclos and Villarceaux (Louis de Mornay).     The most famous of the French 17^th century courtesans, Ninon had been forced into the role by poverty.  But she was of good birth, highly educated, intelligent, and very beautiful, and made a success in her chose occupation – she died rich at age 82.  She fell deeply in love with Louis de Mornay, and came to live with him in the countryside.  They had a son together, but eventually she got bored and returned to Paris, to the stimulating companionship of her former circle of poets, painters, and philosophers.

Victor Hugo and Juliette Drouet.    Around 1831 Victor Hugo's wife became romantically involved with a well-known critic and good friend of the family, Sainte-Beuve, and Victor fell in love with the actress Juliette Drouet, who soon became his mistress.  Drouet became his assistant and traveling companion for the next fifty years.  Hugo and Drouet wrote each other many letters, which are graphic and passionate.  Although Hugo had other liaisons, he always returned to Juliette.

Villon and la Grosse Margot.      Francois Villon is the best known French poet of the late Middle Ages.  In England the line ‘Mais où sont les neiges d'antan’ – ‘where are the snows of yesteryear’ is the best known part of his work.  La Grosse Margot features in one of his ballads, and he as her pimp.  According to the ballad they are equally vulgar and filthy, but well suited to each other precisely because of it.

Rodin and Rose.     Auguste Rodin, the sculptor and Rose Beuret, a seamstress, were together for most of their lives, with varying degrees of commitment.  Rodin finally married Rose 53 years into their relationship, two weeks before she died; he died later in the same year.  She supported him loyally when he was unsuccessful, and he always returned to her, abandoning his other lovers.

Happy St Valentine's Day!  May you have many more to look forward to!

Miscellaneous Musings

What I missed

Today is a Free Day, so to speak.  I was supposed to go to Paris, but decided to cancel because of the atrocious weather – who knows whether I would be able to come back in time for work next Monday?  And anyway I need to be here to rescue my scarf collection if my house blows down.  So I am having a day at home.  I don’t have to meet anyone or do any chores or shop – after all I am not supposed to be here at all!

Of course I could have improvised and just Up & Done Something, but I remembered the fun that eluded me during the recent power cut and decided to have that fun now.  So I went to the shops for a newspaper (quite hefty, it being Saturday), and bought not one but TWO!!! croissants (I ran out of coins but a nice fellow customer gifted me 38 pence and restored my faith in humanity), made a largish pot of coffee, and settled down for a morning of inactivity.  And the radio stayed silent!

Marvellous amazing wonderful!  I should do this more often.  But there is always so much to do.  Well today the world had to get on without me, I did what Pascal suggested – just stayed at home and looked out of the window!  Except when I looked out of the window I saw all the jobs that needed doing in the garden, and the fact that the windows need cleaning badly, so I averted my eyes and looked elsewhere.  I spent the day reading and sleeping and musing about this that and the other, and indulged myself by composing these musings.

Normally I try to honour my readers by writing carefully penned little missives, not the slap-dash hit & run stuff found on so many other blogs.  But today is an exception, and I wrote about everything and anything that came to mind.  You have been warned!

What is just down the street

Come on Baby Light my Fire!  I thought of that song when I passed the fireplace in the Parlour this morning.  It still contains the remnants of a fire from over a week ago.  Cleaning up after a fire is hard work, and no fun whatsoever.  And before you can have another fire you have to clean up the mess from the previous one!  If you just build a new fire on the debris left over from the old one you are asking for trouble, and the fire will never burn very well, if at all.  You’ll get a quick flash in the pan and then it’s just dieing ambers.  I wish people thought of that before they started new relationships.  Instead they hook up with someone new before they have emotionally finished with their previous flame, and more often than not punish the new love for the sufferings that were inflicted by the previous one, leaving the new one to think, What did I do wrong?  You didn’t do anything wrong, the previous one did, and you just got punished for someone else’s misdeeds.  Let the ambers die, clean out the grate real good, and then light the fire!

Ain sakhri lovers figurine

Female Genital Mutilation.  Kudos to The Guardian for having taken this cause up big-time.  It is one of those topics that make me alternatively incandescent with rage and deadly depressed – what sick perverted mind could dream up such an utterly horrible practice?  And lest one thinks this is a male-oppressing-female issue, the ‘cutters’ are mainly old women doing it to the female children.  ‘Well, we have to make a living’, one of them told The Guardian.  Murderers and thieves might make the same claim!  And does anyone honestly think that a young man wants to have a wife who shrinks away in fear of pain every time he eyes her amorously, and has a massively increased chance of childbirth complications and other health issues?  But the young men aren’t asked whether they want to marry a healthy or a mutilated woman, any more than the girls whether they want to be cut.  This isn’t men against women, this is an establishment trying to control their young folk (boys are cut, too, though it is nowhere near as mutilating).  Apparently in France they managed to make serious inroads into this crime by checking all girls periodically and hauling their parents to court if they are found to have been mutilated.  I hope the petition launched by that amazing 17 year old young woman Fahma Mohamed will achieve the same result in the UK.   

http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/52740

My Amazing Perfume-Fish.  I recently discovered to my great sorrow that I am allergic to my favourite winter perfume, Ambre Narguile.  If I use it more than a few times on the same spot my skin goes all red and pimply.  It is probably the cinnamon in it – it smells like hot apple pie with cinnamon, and is the most comforting smell imaginable (also it goes well with Sunday roast dinner!).  What’s a woman to do?  I tried spraying it on to my clothes, rather than myself, but it doesn’t do the clothes any good …  I thought long and hard, and decided to put the perfume onto a bit of cotton wool, cunningly concealed inside a golden locket, which I would wear around my neck.  Unfortunately most lockets have solid sides, so no scent could escape from them.  What I needed was a locket with one solid side to rest against my body and shield it from the - to me - toxic perfume fumes, and one perforated side to face the world and let the scent escape.  Would you believe I went to every likely shop in town and couldn’t find what I was looking for?  Ebay it was!  Still no luck, until I found a little hollow goldfish.  I am awaiting its arrival any day now!  The plan is to stuff its capacious belly with cotton wool, dribble a bit of perfume onto it, and then add it to the array of golden necklaces that adorn my upper torso.  When the fish is warmed up by my body heat, the perfume will vaporise and escape from its mouth - I really hope this works!  

This is quite tiny in real life!

Talk text browse, the moment you arrive!  That’s what it says on my Eurostar ticket.  Are they insane or something?  Do they think I am going all the way to Paris to talk text and browse?  I have friends to meet, sights to see, scarves to buy, coffee to drink!  I send a quick text when I am safely on the train, if that, and after that you’ll see me when you see me.  I still remember when I finally caved in seven years ago and rented a mobile telephone everyone predicted I would wonder how I ever lived without one within weeks.  Well it didn’t happen.  I went from a regular contract to pay-as-you go as soon as my contract ran out, and lost three telephone numbers because I use my mobile telephone so little (they take your number off you if you don’t use it for three months!).  For me a mobile telephone is for emergencies, and frankly I don’t have all that many.  At first I told a few people about the mobile telephone, and they tried to call and left messages and texts, and then got quite cross because there was no reply.  ‘Well I haven’t been in France for a while,’ I told them.  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ they said.  ‘I only use my mobile telephone to send texts to friends in Paris telling them that I am safely on the train – what else do I need it for?’  Now I tell everyone I don’t have a mobile telephone, it fits in with their notion of me as being quaintly old-fashioned and saves me having to check the damn thing all the time.  Yes, I am still using the same one I bought seven years ago!  Just e-mail me, OK?

Gare du Nord

The Television Harassment Brigade.  Yup, they are at it again.  Many years ago, when I had just moved into my little house, the letters started to come.  Why wasn’t I paying my TV Licence?  I wrote to them politely telling them that I did not have a television set, and thought it was the end of the matter.  It was no such thing!  I kept getting increasingly threatening letters, to which I replied with increasing asperity.  Finally they gave up.  But since then every other year or so they start again.  First their letters suggest that I had just forgotten to pay my licence fee.  Then they ask that I write to them and explain myself.  They threaten to visit me and inspect the house for concealed television receivers (actually they’d need a search warrant to do that).  Right now they are threatening me with court action.  After my initial bout with them, when I wrote them half a dozen letters, I found out that I am under no obligation to communicate with them.  They have to prove that I watch television, and since they can’t do that (partly because their much quoted detector vans don’t actually work, partly because I don’t watch television) I have nothing to fear.  But it is still extremely irritating to be suspected of being a television watcher - I mean, of all the insults!

Well, I have managed to waste the day pleasantly!  It is amazing how long you can string out a single newspaper if you put your mind to it, and take regular breaks for tea and Facebook check-ups …

Ahhhhhhh.......

Fate can be so cruel - Powercut!!!!

We live in difficult times.  Barely a month ago I lost a tile from my roof, after 15 years of no such thing happening at all.  And today fate further victimised me by inflicting a Powercut on my little house while I was sound asleep! 

The day started quite well, actually.  I got a good night’s sleep, courtesy of the radio alarm not going off.  I frantically jumped out of bed at 7 am, rushed to the bathroom, pulled the cord – and there was no light!  The radio was likewise inoperational.  Looking out of the window I noticed that (a) none of my neighbours had any light, either, and (b) that there was an eerie silence.  The storm had brought down a power line, and half of Oxford was cut off.  Appliances, radiators, and electric showers, were all in a state of service-denial.  Well, what was I supposed to do?  Go to work unwashed?  I went back to bed, determined to have a flexi day.

Slowly the temperature decreased and the house was getting increasingly cold.  I put on my woollen housecoat and snuggled deeper under the bedcovers.  Even my head was buried.  The comfort and heat that enfolded my head under the blankets must have jogged my memory banks, because I suddenly remembered that the cooker ran on gas.  Ergo I could make myself a cup of tea if I heated the water in a saucepan on the hob!

Considerably cheered I hopped downstairs and prepared a nice cuppa.  Then I returned to bed, clutching yesterday’s newspaper.  This was going to be a day off!  What better excuse could a body have for not going to work?  Nor doing anything else, for that matter?  I rather like not doing anything at all, just quietly sitting drinking tea and minding my own business.  Usually there are always things to do, cleaning and cooking and washing and tidying and paying bills and writing e-mails and so on and so forth, so the idea of a quiet day at home without being able to do anything filled me with serene contentment.

If proof were needed for the intellect-stimulating effects of tea, I could today supply it, for I had scarcely finished half the cup when a deeply disturbing thought formed in my innocently happy mind:  If I could heat up water on the stove in a small pot and make a cup of tea, I could surely also heat up water in a large pot and use it to wash myself, and then go to work!

Try as I might I could not suppress the thought.  Even the outraged protest by my newly warmed up body, cosily ensconced beneath several layers of woolly blankets and quite happy where it was, thank you very much, viz that it was inhuman! to wash myself in a bathroom temperature of barely 10 degree Celsius!!!! failed to overcome my obviously deeply rooted sense of duty towards my employer.  Sighing deeply, I went downstairs, filled the biggest pot I could find with ice cold water and put it on the largest flame, and returned to bed, depressed and morose.  As the poet says, Duty is an icy burden!

At exactly quarter past eight the water began to boil.  A split second later the radio blared out, the lights went back on again, and the refrigerator started its customary hum!  Whyever did I bother?  It is futile to fight against one’s fate, all endeavour is pointless, and life would be so much more simple if we just accepted whatever happened without all this useless effort!

Well I had my shower and got to the office just about on time. I was by no means the only one thus inconvenienced; for example Teddy Hall served breakfast to their students by candle light this morning.  But I still feel hard done by.

Sniff!

Now I am going to have to adjust all my clocks and timers!  &%$!!£??&*