I had a steak for lunch today. With a huge boiled potato smothered in sour cream (don't the Teutons like butter?) and an unpretentious Pinot Grigio. Which was all right, except that as I cut into the steak I suddenly realized that it had about the same colour and texture as my face.
Agony, really. I’ve been up at 14,000 feet where the vast outdoors are one’s privy (don’t ask). I’ve been in Mussoorie and out in the boondocks when it was snowing. Then WHY does it happen that when it’s warmer in
Luckily our exhibit designer knows about these things and suggested “water-proof Vaseline”. (My Gaydar is not very reliable, but I think he is - no, I do NOT mean he is reliable - so I didn’t ask any further questions about Vaseline). As the young Macaulay once said, “The agony has somewhat abated.”
And now for the standard two degrees of separation story. Fellow blogger (Bong, of course, though now in
 Thomas Babington, 1st Baron Macaulay, 1800-1859. I loathe him for ruining Bangali enterprise through his avowed (and successful) intention of “creating a nation of Baboos” and for his dismissal of Oriental learning. On the other hand, he did draft the Indian Penal Code, which I consider great craftsmanship. Anyway, the story goes that when he was about three-and-a-bit, he was taken to visit some relatives. Where he spilt some hot coffee on his velveteen breeches. After the fuss had died down, he was asked whether it still hurt, to which he gravely replied “The agony is somewhat abated”. Zounds!