The scene - Victorian London in the grip of thick, yellow fog. Swirling through cobbled alleys, drifting over slumped figures; hands outstretched in the hope of charity. Two gentlemen, wrapped against the foul mist with top hats sending the fog curling in tendrils behind them, are stepping over the glistening stones; polished shoes reflecting the faint gas-light above.
Dr Mobile: "Ah, Mr Pager. A fine evening for a stroll"
Mr Pager (for it is he): "Indeed. The stench of failure is in the air. One can almost taste it"
Dr Mobile: "Failure you say? Why it must be almost 24 hours since we last indulged ourselves..."
Mr Pager (thoughtfully): "So it is, so it is..."
Dr Mobile: "And look! There! Lying on the street! A young begger-girl... with her ankles exposed!"
Mr Pager (in shock): "Ankles? Exposed? Dr Mobile, I can no longer control myself! I must! I must!"
Beep beep beep beep
At 0230 this morning the pager went off. At 0330 I was in the office, blearily staring at a biege box that was being sick from every orifice all over the network. At 0600 I was back in bed, trying to grab half an hour's sleep.
And then... and then... the horror. I became aware of someone prodding my side and a wavering voice said:
"Hello dearie, are you awake? Only I need to give your room a dust"
I opened my eyes to find a kindly wrinkled face inches from my own. Sadly, there aren't enough keys on the keybaord to do justice to my reaction.
I gather my Father did two things. Firstly, he decided that I needed sleep, and when my alarm failed to wake me, left me alone. Secondly, he has employed a cleaner, and left a note instructing her to wake me when she got to my room.
Why couldn't it have been a svelte young student working the vacation or something? Why must it be somebody older than my grandmother, surrounded by a faint odour of cabbage?
