Day 99: While My Downpipe Gently Thaws

Wake up to fingers of ice spreading over the windows on the INSIDE.  Outside is a new level of cold -  my nose stings and my eyes water on the way to get the paper.  The country's record low of -17 degrees is just down the road in Buckinghamshire, so I imagine we're not far off that.  The water from the shower pools in the bath tub, resolutely not draining away.  The downpipe is frozen solid. 

So - indoor activities.  The long, slow creation of a chilli.  Which cannot be rushed.  It is a thing of alchemy and incantation - involving bottles and jars from the darkest recesses of the cupboards.  And hours of gentle pobbling on the hob.

Watching old episodes of The Tube.  Paula, all bleached featheriness and arch flirtation, draped over youthful Jools.  The Thompson Twins (I still dislike Alannah Curry's hair, hat and stompy dancing), Depeche Mode, Blancmange, Chaka Khan.  Nothing to my taste.  Nor to the audience's, apparently.  They stand, stolidly staring.  A few of them sway - but to a different beat.  A sea of bovine incomprehension.  Reminds me of a Sunday Edinburgh Fringe audience.   

Fulcrum reminder

And Robert Smith.  Always teetering on the seesaw of obesity.  Like Boy George.  In this bit of footage he's on the up and looking good - smeary lipstick, crimped hair, drainpipes and baggy DJ.  Proper 1980s indie.  Coincidentally I saw a clip of him yesterday - but this time on the down.  Baggy suit fooling nobody (too many pies), and overgrown hair like a bouffant porcupine. 

Haven't seen, heard or thought of Robert Smith in years.  Now, two sightings in the space of two days.  What can it mean?  Perhaps a timely reminder of that seesaw fulcrum.  (Put the pie down, and back away from the baggy suit.)  How quickly the up can become the down...   

Talking of which, the downpipe.  It has thawed enough to let the water in the bath disappear.  All it took was patience and time.  Like a good chilli.