Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Thursday, 17 January 2013
The temperature steadily rose last night and the frost has disappeared, which means the mercury is hovering somewhere around the 0 to +1 mark - warm enough for the snow which is supposed to arrive tomorrow.
I'll walk down the street again and see if the junkie is back in his place, telling everyone to 'have a nice day' as he curses them under his breath for not giving him any money. I really don't know what to do about his 'caravan', because I am not likely to furnish him with his next ten-pound bag, and I am not interested in buying his Methadone - I used to like the odd bit of class A, but I have always saved the opiates for when I really need them - terminal cancer, for instance. I may put him in touch with St Martins in the Fields and leave it to the professionals.
As I walk past him, I am on my way to the home of my best client, who just happens to be rather on the wealthy side. In weather like this, a full-sized tanker arrives at his house once a week to top up the heating oil. An outside pools steams away all winter at a constant temperature of 25 degrees. They want me to look at another marble figure. I am going from one extreme to another today.
Our compact but adorable city apartment has no heating to speak of, and as I type this my fingers are getting colder and colder, but I need no sympathy - we like it that way. We are constantly offered free central heating, and we are constantly rejecting it. I seriously considered fitting a log-burner here this winter, until someone brought me back to reality by asking how and where I would store the logs, how I would bring them upstairs and how I would dispose of the ashes every day. It's a shame, really - I love staring into a real fire.
Maybe I should have a constant video of a log fire burning away as a screen-saver? Don't laugh, people really do this (click above whilst you read this). When I was a kid, we had a two-bar electric heater with a flickering light shining through a red filter onto plastic logs, and even then I refused to be psychologically duped by it - I have always hated bad pastiche, even though I still really like the good sort - frosted glitter on Christmas cards, for instance.
H.I. absolutely hates looking and films set in frozen Arctic wastes, or at the peak of some -50 mountain range, but I absolutely love them. They make me feel so cosy and privileged - even though the ambient temperature rarely rises above about 10 in this flat, this time of year.
She loves reading in bed though, which is where all her reading is done, every night. I love the idea of it, but as soon as I am tucked up and half-way through the first paragraph, the next thing I know is that it is 4 in the morning, and I am lying face down in a pool of my own saliva which is spread over paragraph one in whatever book my head happens to be resting on.
I could be worse - I could be lying face-down in a pool of someone else's saliva I suppose. Those were the days.