Barbara Spencer's Blog: Two sides to Every Story, page 6

A Singular Man – part 1

In all honesty it should be John the Jazz telling this story but he is too busy networking. A typical showman he is driven to wooing every female in sight – regardless of age or beauty – a buttress for his own fading charms? Quite harmless, of course, this dalliance is carried on in plain sight; John has no intention of landing himself in trouble for flirting. Tall, white haired, bronzed and rounded of body, he is still handsome, although I expect he has crossed the three score years and ten barrier, he eulogizes about his legs, more – I suspect – as an crowd pleaser than anything else.
'Maria,' he calls out to the maid, across a sunlit courtyard. She pauses and leans on her broom, always happy to take a break from the daily routine of cleaning dozens of apartments for untidy and sloppy tourists. John the Jazz hauls up the leg of his shorts – to a respectable height, for John is never offensive: 'See these legs, they're still good; the rest kaput.' Maria, from Bulgaria, short and dark, about thirty years his junior, laughs and calls out a few flattering words in broken English.      
I recall a gossipy snippet about Joan Collins. 'Of course the legs are the last to go,' and  sadly acknowledge that in my case they were the first.       
So it has fallen upon my shoulders to tell the story, while John continues to bring filtered rays of sunlight into the lives of young and old sitting round the pool, and I berate myself, for the umpteenth time, for being so stupid as to go away on my own.      
For me it is always the same, a period of time that has to be endured; so why do I persist in putting myself through it? Hotels cater for couples. A single person – correction a single female person – is an anomaly; no one quite knows what to do with her.
This year, I chide myself, it will be different. Therefore, immediately on arrival, I pluck up courage and trespass on to the hallowed ground of the swimming pool, where a scattering of silent sun-worshipping bodies can be seen.Two vast ladies deeply absorbed in their novels. They belong to that group of amorphous bodies, which never move while the sun remains overhead. Their radar is so finely tuned it can pinpoint the exact millisecond the May sunshine moves out of orbit of their gargantuan flesh. In a flash they leap from their chairs, re-arranging either themselves or their recliners into a new position, designed for maximum exposure. 
Then there's the obligatory retired couple, who  go early to breakfast in order to go early to the pool where they remain all day, but never swim. And a slightly younger pairing, neatly attired in matching shirts, shorts and hats, deeply attentive to their matching books, who recline at the same angle (one knee bent up) beneath the shade of an umbrella. There is also a bored young woman tending the pool bar.      
The silence is overwhelming and I retreat to my room for a sleep – always a good option.      
I feel obliged to explain that I am not of the generation that arrives at a hotel, leaps straight onto the diving board and shouts to the world at large, 'Hey I'm here. Anyone wanting a good time shout Ay!' 
No, I am of the generation of English women that know my place. Quite willing for a gentle 'good morning' to suffice for the first day; this to be followed up by, 'what wonderful weather,' on the second, evolving into a full-blown conversation and repartee on the seventh – one hour before I depart. Nevertheless I could write a book about how unfriendly couples – studiously rubbing suntan lotion into each other – can be. Their understanding is that a woman, who travels on her own, is a pariah, a freak of nature and someone to be feared. Even a stilted, 'good morning' in her direction might prove fatal. One unwise word and you could find yourself listening to an out-pouring of a lifetime of illnesses. 

Is their anything worse? There just might be. 
An unwary, 'Oh tomorrow? We're going on the Heraklion tour, aren't we John,' might elicit, 'That sounds wonderful. May I join you?' 
 And how do you get out of that?

So like canine submission, I need to prove to the world at large that I do not suffer from verbal diarrhea and have no desire to latch on to someone else's holiday plans. I do this by sitting quietly under my umbrella for the entire day, stirring only when some sudden poolside activity breaks my concentration, when I look up with an intelligent and amused smile, aware that I remain a figure of deep suspicion, as long as I remain reasonably presentable and don't look half bad in a swimming costume.

Alan - A Singular Man – part 1

In all honesty it should be John the Jazz telling this story but he is too busy networking. A typical showman he is driven to wooing every female in sight – regardless of age or beauty – a buttress for his own fading charms? Quite harmless, of course, this dalliance is carried on in plain sight; John has no intention of landing himself in trouble for flirting. Tall, white haired, bronzed and rounded of body, he is still handsome, although I expect he has crossed the three score years and ten barrier, he eulogizes about his legs, more – I suspect – as an crowd pleaser than anything else.
'Maria,' he calls out to the maid, across a sunlit courtyard. She pauses and leans on her broom, always happy to take a break from the daily routine of cleaning dozens of apartments for untidy and sloppy tourists. John the Jazz hauls up the leg of his shorts – to a respectable height, for John is never offensive: 'See these legs, they're still good; the rest kaput.' Maria, from Bulgaria, short and dark, about thirty years his junior, laughs and calls out a few flattering words in broken English.      
I recall a gossipy snippet about Joan Collins. 'Of course the legs are the last to go,' and  sadly acknowledge that in my case they were the first.       
So it has fallen upon my shoulders to tell the story, while John continues to bring filtered rays of sunlight into the lives of young and old sitting round the pool, and I berate myself, for the umpteenth time, for being so stupid as to go away on my own.      
For me it is always the same, a period of time that has to be endured; so why do I persist in putting myself through it? Hotels cater for couples. A single person – correction a single female person – is an anomaly; no one quite knows what to do with her.
This year, I chide myself, it will be different. Therefore, immediately on arrival, I pluck up courage and trespass on to the hallowed ground of the swimming pool, where a scattering of silent sun-worshipping bodies can be seen.Two vast ladies deeply absorbed in their novels. They belong to that group of amorphous bodies, which never move while the sun remains overhead. Their radar is so finely tuned it can pinpoint the exact millisecond the May sunshine moves out of orbit of their gargantuan flesh. In a flash they leap from their chairs, re-arranging either themselves or their recliners into a new position, designed for maximum exposure. 
Then there's the obligatory retired couple, who  go early to breakfast in order to go early to the pool where they remain all day, but never swim. And a slightly younger pairing, neatly attired in matching shirts, shorts and hats, deeply attentive to their matching books, who recline at the same angle (one knee bent up) beneath the shade of an umbrella. There is also a bored young woman tending the pool bar.      
The silence is overwhelming and I retreat to my room for a sleep – always a good option.      
I feel obliged to explain that I am not of the generation that arrives at a hotel, leaps straight onto the diving board and shouts to the world at large, 'Hey I'm here. Anyone wanting a good time shout Ay!' 
No, I am of the generation of English women that know my place. Quite willing for a gentle 'good morning' to suffice for the first day; this to be followed up by, 'what wonderful weather,' on the second, evolving into a full-blown conversation and repartee on the seventh – one hour before I depart. Nevertheless I could write a book about how unfriendly couples – studiously rubbing suntan lotion into each other – can be. Their understanding is that a woman, who travels on her own, is a pariah, a freak of nature and someone to be feared. Even a stilted, 'good morning' in her direction might prove fatal. One unwise word and you could find yourself listening to an out-pouring of a lifetime of illnesses. 

Is their anything worse? There just might be. 
An unwary, 'Oh tomorrow? We're going on the Heraklion tour, aren't we John,' might elicit, 'That sounds wonderful. May I join you?' 
 And how do you get out of that?

So like canine submission, I need to prove to the world at large that I do not suffer from verbal diarrhea and have no desire to latch on to someone else's holiday plans. I do this by sitting quietly under my umbrella for the entire day, stirring only when some sudden poolside activity breaks my concentration, when I look up with an intelligent and amused smile, aware that I remain a figure of deep suspicion, as long as I remain reasonably presentable and don't look half bad in a swimming costume.

A single woman abroad – part 1

In all honesty it should be John the Jazz telling this story but he is too busy networking. A typical showman he is driven to wooing every female in sight – regardless of age or beauty – a buttress for his own fading charms? Quite harmless, of course, this dalliance is carried on in plain sight; John has no intention of landing himself in trouble for flirting. Tall, white haired, bronzed and rounded of body, he is still handsome, although I expect he has crossed the three score years and ten barrier, he eulogizes about his legs, more – I suspect – as an crowd pleaser than anything else.      'Maria,' he calls out to the maid, across a sunlit courtyard.       She pauses and leans on her broom, always happy to take a break from the daily routine of cleaning dozens of apartments for untidy and sloppy tourists.       John the Jazz hauls up the leg of his shorts – to a respectable height, for John is never offensive: 'See these legs, they're still good; the rest kaput.'      Maria, from Bulgaria, short and dark, about thirty years his junior, laughs and calls out a few flattering words in broken English.       I recall a gossipy snippet about Joan Collins. 'Of course the legs are the last to go,' and  sadly acknowledge that in my case they were the first.      So it has fallen upon my shoulders to tell the story, while John continues to bring filtered rays of sunlight into the lives of young and old sitting round the pool, and I berate myself, for the umpteenth time, for being so stupid as to go away on my own.       For me it is always the same, a period of time that has to be endured; so why do I persist in putting myself through it? Hotels cater for couples. A single person – correction a single female person – is an anomaly; no one quite knows what to do with her.      This year, I chide myself, it will be different. Therefore, immediately on arrival, I pluck up courage and trespass on to the hallowed ground of the swimming pool, where a scattering of silent sun-worshipping bodies can be seen.       Two vast ladies deeply absorbed in their novels. They belong to that group of amorphous bodies, which never move while the sun remains overhead. Their radar is so finely tuned it can pinpoint the exact millisecond the May sunshine moves out of orbit of their gargantuan flesh. In a flash they leap from their chairs, re-arranging either themselves or their recliners into a new position, designed for maximum exposure.      Then there's the obligatory retired couple, who  go early to breakfast in order to go early to the pool where they remain all day, but never swim. And a slightly younger pairing, neatly attired in matching shirts, shorts and hats, deeply attentive to their matching books, who recline at the same angle (one knee bent up) beneath the shade of an umbrella. There is also a bored young woman tending the pool bar.       The silence is overwhelming and I retreat to my room for a sleep – always a good option.      I feel obliged to explain that I am not of the generation that arrives at a hotel, leaps straight onto the diving board and shouts to the world at large, 'Hey I'm here. Anyone wanting a good time shout Ay!'       No, I am of the generation of English women that know my place. Quite willing for a gentle 'good morning' to suffice for the first day; this to be followed up by, 'what wonderful weather,' on the second, evolving into a full-blown conversation and repartee on the seventh – one hour before I depart.      Nevertheless I could write a book about how unfriendly couples – studiously rubbing suntan lotion into each other – can be. Their understanding is that a woman, who travels on her own, is a pariah, a freak of nature and someone to be feared. Even a stilted, 'good morning' in her direction might prove fatal. One unwise word and you could find yourself listening to an out-pouring of a lifetime of illnesses.      Is their anything worse? There just might be.     An unwary, 'Oh tomorrow? We're going on the Heraklion tour, aren't we John,' might elicit, 'That sounds wonderful. May I join you?'      And how do you get out of that?     So like canine submission, I need to prove to the world at large that I do not suffer from verbal diarrhea and have no desire to latch on to someone else's holiday plans. I do this by sitting quietly under my umbrella for the entire day, stirring only when some sudden poolside activity breaks my concentration, when I look up with an intelligent and amused smile, aware that I remain a figure of deep suspicion, as long as I remain reasonably presentable and don't look half bad in a swimming costume.

IT'S BLOOMIN' UNFAIR ...

I decided to give up going to the gym today. After all when you go up and downstairs as many times in the day as I do, you don’t need expensive running machines. In fact all you need is a bad memory or a shortage of spectacles. NO THAT IS NOT A TYPOGRAPHICAL ERROR, I really did say bad memory and shortage of spectacles. Here’s the thing. Scientific fact: as you grow older your sight gets longer and your memory shorter – I think it’s in direct proportion or is it indirect proportion? Anyway, I need glasses and because I work upstairs, very sensibly I have a pair upstairs and a pair downstairs. Brilliant, you say, until the day comes when you find the pair upstairs missing. So you charge downstairs, scour the house and the car and then take upstairs your downstairs pair.Five minutes later, you find your upstairs pair where you left them, very carefully on top of the banisters. So you charge downstairs to replace the down … ok, you get the picture.Now, multiply that by a bad memory. 1 Pair of glasses + 13 stairs x 15* = a very fit, but very frustrated writer. 15* represents the number of times I lose my specs per day. If you add on other absentminded sorties, such as going downstairs to make coffee and then forgetting to take it back up with you, you can also understand why I gave up the gym.
Then came the day when I had an operation on my tooth. For that I had to take antibiotics, gargle with a foul-tasting mouthwash to kill the bacteria that reside in my mouth, use a special toothpaste because ordinary toothpaste kills the mouthwash + a 2nd toothpaste fluoride to stop teeth rotting, and 2 toothbrushes. The antibiotics didn’t like me and set up horrendous itching, for which I bought several tubes of different types of cream. Then the rain brought on a bad knee which meant yet another tube of anti-inflammatory cream. Then as an early birthday present my daughter bought me several jars and tubes of very expensive face cream to restore a youthful bloom. Full of ambition, I lined the entire lot up on the bathroom shelf. The crunch came when I found myself using gargle to clean my face! (I recognised it, because it was deep turquoise instead of being colourless.)Panic set in – and a 3rd pair of spectacles now reposes in the bathroom. Okay, gargle onto cotton wool instead of using witch hazel is not too serious. Using anti-inflammatory cream instead of toothpaste – that’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Of course having an additional pairs of specs hasn’t solved a thing. If anything, it’s made life even more complicated because now I have 3 pairs that I can misplace.

The good, the bad, and the ugly.

I am sitting in the dentist’s chair … Hey, do keep up. Scroll back to my last blog!
This time I happen to be musing on how crowded the Internet has become with review sites. It is littered … except, littered is the wrong word, conveying only a derogatory message. Festooned or adorned would be better. Review sites set up by the bravest of people who love books and take it upon themselves to review them.
Ebooks now number in their millions; some good, some great and some, positively dire. They may be free from spelling mistakes, thanks to spell checker, but they lack even a basic knowledge of sentence and plot construction.
Whoever it was that said, everyone has a book inside them, should have been shot at dawn. Everyone may well have a book inside them but that doesn’t mean they can write it.One simple reason – for the majority writing is a learned craft, just like tap dancing and becoming an astronaut.
And it’s bloody hard work! No, not the writing. Everything else. One agent states on her website, “If you haven’t spent as long editing as you have writing, don’t bother to submit your manuscript.” Another agent accepts or rejects a book on the first page. (No margin for error there.)
Agents have it easy. They only have to read three chapters before needing to lie down in a darkened room. But reviewers, they are supposed to plough through the whole thing.
How do they do it? A bad synopsis has me reeling and in desperate need of a gin and tonic. I have been known to read an entire chapter of a bad book but to go further … I promise I have tried; dozens and dozens of times. But these guys … on they go … page after page after page … all 400 of them. Scott of the Antarctic has nothing on them. Stoically they wade through thigh-high drivel, flounder through chest-deep meanderings, and into trite, meaningless and banal conversation.They have to be the toughest, bravest, most long suffering people in the world.

My advice to all would-be writers is ... If you can’t afford a decent course, there’s a great book, How to Write a Blockbuster by Helen Corner and Lee Weatherly. Or read children’s books. When I teach creative writing, I often suggest picking at random twelve novels from the shelves in the library, reading the first couple of chapters of each one – to see how it is done.  Writers of children’s books are masters. They have to be. One dull page and you lose your reader. So, Philip Pullman for sentence construction; Louis Sacher for economic prose and story-telling; Anthony Horowitz for planning … among many I could name.
Yep! Reviewers are superheros all right. Clutching a large brandy, they plough through verbose synopsis after verbose synopsis, no doubt muttering: “It is a far, far better thing that I do now than I have ever done …”By the time they reach the end of the book, they definitely deserve their rest when they get it (apologies to Mr Dickens).

a life-changing decision

I spent the afternoon lying prone, first in the dentist’s chair and then in the hygienist’s chair – which wasn’t as comfortable and messed my hair.It was an interesting exercise – one that sent me speeding home to smile in the mirror and then look for my calculator. More of that in a minute. The object of the session was to analise what work I needed doing and compute the cost. (Of course, I didn’t actually see any brochures lurking in the dentist’s office, but I am sure one look in my mouth and he was planning a long summer cruise.)You eventually become aware that something of a very serious nature is happening in your mouth when the dentist, from behind the white mask, starts spouting numbers followed by a series of sonorous umsand ahs. So alarming is the noise, you immediately and surreptitiously begin to scan your bank balance on your mobile phone and apply for an overdraft, in the hope that if you handover enough dosh, your dentist will correct the problem. A problem, may I add, of which you were unaware until the dentist started umming and ahing.  At the end comes a long and very expensive discussion about what can be done and about plaque. For those unclear as to the meaning of the word plaque; plaque in the singular is the dirty brown stuff that supposedly clings to your teeth, sets up decay and gum rot. Plaque in the plural, i.e. plaques, are pretty little objet d’art, a bit kitsch, usually made of porcelain (there are cheaper versions made of pottery) which cling to the walls of your hall or sitting room.
Apparently, according to the list of numbers the dentist was calling out, I had got plenty of the former.
Were you aware that eating food causes plaque which rots your teeth, inflames the gums and costs a lot? Worse, its causes gum disease, which leads to bone loss, receding gums and loose teeth, which costs a lot more to put right.Rather like the old lady that swallowed a fly …. She got suckered in too.So, after careful consideration of my bank balance which tends to be devoid of zeros much of the time, I agreed to visit the hygienist.
‘Starches, carbohydrates are worst,’ I was told. ‘Foods, like bananas, are worse even than sweets. You know, things that leave a coating on your teeth.  And if you have to eat sweets, it is better to eat them all at once – and then clean your teeth.' Hey, hang on. I’m not having that. The whole point of sweets and chocolate – I use them as an anti-depressant – is that they leave a yummy taste in your mouth, which helps maintain an equable and friendly outlook, provided it is regularly topped up by another piece of chocolate.And you want to me to go and clean my teeth?
‘Then there’s yoghourt …’Yoghourt? Alarm bells began to flash.I waited while the hygienist moved round the chair to begin removing plaque (singular) from my top teeth.‘Yoghourt is acid. Too much and it erodes the teeth – like drinking Coke all day.’‘Oh’ I said alarmed, thinking about my morning banana and my evening pudding of yoghourt, which I eat in the misguided belief that they are doing me good.
‘What foods don’t cause plaque?’ I said when I could open my mouth again. ‘Protein. Tribes that only eat meat usually don’t have any decay in their teeth.’I waited.‘Of course, they probably suffer bowel cancer, liver failure, and childhood rickets from lack of vegetables.’Ah ha! I just knew there’d be a downside. I waited and thought, listening to the plaque (singular again) tumble out of my mouth.‘To sum up,’ I said thoughtfully when she had finished. ‘Eating food causes plaque, although these days we get gum disease rather than cavities because we all used fluoride when we were kids. But the results the same, it’s equally as expensive to correct.'‘Well,’ the hygienist blustered. ‘Looking after your teeth is important.’So is eating – but I didn’t say it.I went home and calculated a life-time’s expenditure on teeth, and a lifetime’s misery eating all the foods that you hate, that don’t contain plaque.That decided me. A good set of dentures and you can eat what you like (you can even eat chocolate in bed) and banish going to the dentist for ever.
 

OFFICIALLY NOT SENILE

"Twould ring the bells of heaven, the wildest peal for years".
If Barbara found her memory sticks ...

Apologies to Anonymous!
And, yes, I have found them. In my suitcase which I searched at least ten times.
But, hey, just imagine if I had gone head-first into the rubbish bin - wouldn't I be regretting it now, out on the dump, cold and weary.
My mother always said, if your search is rewarded then the time wasn't wasted.
Rubbish!
In the time I spent searching the house, tidying every single drawer in case, lifting the couch and the bed, pulling out the bookcase ...

I could have written a best seller!

Seller! Just reminded me, when I was looking I didn't bother with the cellar. Reason told me that since I never go down there, neither did the memory sticks!

Children’s writer tipped over the edge by painful loss ... …

Green-coated officials arrived at the residence of Barbara Spencer, the children’s author, in the early hours of Wednesday morning, after a neighbour had reported seeing her dive head-first into her rubbish bin minutes before the council collectors arrived to take it away.When they finally gained admittance, a very dehydrated and exhausted figure met them. Collapsed on the stairs, incoherently muttering, ‘But they must be here somewhere,’ after several cups of strong coffee, the writer (of eight children’s books) confessed that she had spent the entire night scouring the house for two black memory sticks.‘Honestly, young man, it’s one thing when Coach B escapes from your train, but quite another when memory sticks – carrying all your lectures – vanish. They have to be here somewhere,’ she repeated, casting a despairing look around her house, in which chaos now reigned. Drawers dumped on the floors, clothes strewn round the room. ‘I even checked the washing machine,’ she wailed.Promising that her dive into the garbage bin had been a last resort and wouldn’t be repeated, the officials left her to get dressed and drive into town to replace the damage. As their ambulance drew away from the kerb, cries of, ‘My life is ruined. It will never be the same again. I’ll have to move. Perhaps they’ll come to light then,’ echoes through the hush of the quiet residential area.
This catastrophic syndrome has now reached epidemic proportions. And it is time government took it seriously. It was always thought The Borrowersto be fiction but it is this reporter’s considered view, that the story is based on fact. And these small creatures are rapidly expanding, determined to take over the world. No longer content with removing a single sock from the washing machine, pens and pencils, they have obviously got their act together and entered the technological age, and are compiling memory sticks and other small gadgets – like those tiny squares of plastic that hold your favourite computer game. It is quite evident, that this particular set of Borrowers, responsible for removing the memory sticks from the drawer in which they had always lived, are trying to set a new record for a domino run and required two more black rectangles to complete the picture.
I mean what other explanation is there?

Breaking news - Incident on the 8.43 from Bath to Paddington triggers general alarm

Latest - Nationwide hunt set in motion by First-Great Western  
I was standing on Bath station, in the bitter cold of Saturday morning, minding my own business as usual, the wind whistling down from the arctic shoes bringing with it blue faces and a clutch of chilblains, shivering bodies gratefully cuddling a take away coffee. A far-off voice announced imminent relief for passengers on platform 2. Needless to say when the long, sinuous shape of the 8.43 eventually curved into view round a bend in the track, I wasn’t the only one to show gratitude then. Spontaneous chattering breaks out, as plans for the day confidently hit the air. Relief is momentary. Tension takes over, as the hundred passengers begin a visual search through the slowly passing train for empty seats.I sink into mine, greedily anticipating an hour of soporific pleasure. Then an alarm call circle through the train, the train manager’s voice tense with stress and concern. ‘Coach B is missing.’Panic spreads up and down and in and out of the entire train except for first-class, inured in silence, as the guard repeats the message, passengers herding up and down searching in vain for Coach B.But it was nowhere to be found. It was not on the train.So where is it? Under lock and key at Bristol terminus, how can it have escaped?The call is repeated every few minutes, my somnolent state abandoned in concern for the flailing bodies searching hopelessly for Coach B. By now the hunt has become nationwide, messages flashed by Morse code from station to station.Have you seen Coach B? If recognised do not approach. May be armed and dangerous. Call for back-up.I can only wait and hope that Coach B has made it. And at this moment, as the train pulls into Reading station, Coach B is heading for the wild open spaces and a life free from servitude and drudgery.Who can blame it?
Well – for starters I guess the hundred or so people forced to stand between Swindon and Paddington.

A spot of Trouble in my Waterworks

So there I was sitting on the floor with my head under the sink.
The question: what am I doing there? is the wrong question. The answer is plainly obvious, since I am surrounded by the bowels of plumbing: two outlet pipes and a u-bend.
The question: what on earth am I doing there at eleven o'clock at night? is also the wrong question. And, had it been asked at the time, I would have said, it was also somewhat irritating. It is quite obvious what I am doing: I am cleaning the drain.
But the question: do you know how to fit these pieces back together again?That question - however hurtful in its tendency to cast aspersions on my mechanical ability - is entirely relevant to the problem in hand. Bulls eye!
You could continue and ask kindly: But shouldn't you be in bed?  Or: Won't you get cramp sitting on the floor like that? But however relevant such questions might be when you are in a tight spot (as I was, crouched on my side with my head jammed inside the cupboard under the sink), such perception, however kindly meant, does nothing to resolve the jigsaw puzzle in my lap. And however much I lecture myself that I have done this before (several times) and have profited by having clean smelling drains for yet another six months, the pieces fail to jell: for I simply cannot remember!Was the u-bend under this drain or indeed under that? Have I lost a piece?I rush outside and examine the spot on the ground, where I had tipped the disgustingly gruesome water. But there are no misplaced pieces of pipe. So if it is all here in my lap, why does this pipe have three outlets? I'm positive it had only two before I washed it. I scrutinise the pieces. Honest, there really are only two bits of pipe into which it can fit. So how come I also have three washers left over?
And: where the hell did I hang my rubber gloves?
Visualisation of the drainage system produces cramp, my toes curling like up like stale slices of bread, causing me to screech in agony and hang on to my toes, until the spasm has passed. Sadly it fails to produce an image of the piece of pipe on which my rubber gloves had, in fact, hung for the past five years. I glance at my watch. One o'clock! I look outside at the peaceful square, neighbours on all sides sleeping soundly, the square cocooned in a haven of blissful sleep.Nothing for it but to give in. And yet …'Tomorrow,' I said aloud, 'the moment I awake I will call the plumber and that will cost me at least a hundred pounds.'It is amazing how the threat of unwanted expenditure clarifies the aging mind. Instantly the pieces made sense, the long white tubes clipping neatly together to form two drains, one horizontal bar (on which my rubber gloves hang), and a u-bend, each piece clean and sweet-smelling and designed to carry, without leaking, waste water into the municipal drain. One last job to be done: I stick my head back under the sink, working my way along each pipe inch by inch, trying to memorise where each piece lives in relation to the next. 'Well' I said, glancing at my watch and a silently sleeping square. 'At least I've saved myself a ton of money.' And on that happy thought I took myself off to bed.