WINDOW SHADES DOWN AT ALL TIMES

You might have guessed that today, given that it is one of my days off, would have been an opportunity for the peculiar behaviours for which mature men are known. And if you remembered previous episodes of the ongoing essay series "single white eccentric past forty discusses his praedilection for not being fully dressed when there is no one else in the apartment but himself, irrespective of whether he is smoking a pipe or a cigarillo" on this blog, you would take it for granted that there were certain things you did not wish to read about in detail.

Such as what you are certain is coming next.

So sorry to disappoint you.

My apartment mate stayed home sick today. So quite naturally, the only time I was naked was when flitting back towards my room after a bath, while she was in her room dozing.

I tend to be somewhat modest.

[About the ongoing essay series "single white eccentric past forty discusses his praedilection for not being fully dressed when there is no one else in the apartment but himself, irrespective of whether he is smoking a pipe or a cigarillo": That is usually shortened to "Naked Middle-Aged Man". I began writing it a few years ago when I noticed that people had visited this blog by searching for that criterium. As search terms go, it is quite absurd; there are no pictures of such a thing, merely descriptions of what I might do while in the buff. Such as brushing my teeth, or taking a long bath. Perfectly innocent things, such as any bachelor might do. I enjoy taunting anonymous pervs with the subject matter, however. If there ever even were any hanky-panky, it would be entirely absent. No elucidations, no nudge-nudge wink-wink boasting. Precisely, in other words, like the present clean, spartan, and almost priestly state of solitude. Feel free to assume that I am hiding something if you wish. 
You've been wrong before I bet.]


I do not regret any missed opportunities.
It was not burdensome in any way.

Earlier today she left her room to watch some real crime doumentaries on the telly, and we discussed murder, bloodshed, stupidity, tackiness, exsanguination, and decapitation, such as is prevalent in other parts of the country. She tends to be cheerfully obsessed with the bad behaviour of white folks -- Chinatown natives all are, because they are infinitely curious about the habits of strange people -- and despite the fact that she's been speaking white since before she was born, certain habits do not die.

Not surprisingly, her favourite English monarch is Henry the Eighth. Who is the absolute epitome of depraved psychopathic Anglo.
And Anglos are the paradigm of white.

Yes, I know the Roman emperors and after them the mediaeval popes were also shockingly "beyond peculiar", but that was so long ago, and British television series haven't shown that for ages!

She is totally uninterested in the peccadilloes of Chinese emperors or the rancid goings-on among the court officials and eunuchs. That is the dubious benefit of being a native speaker of English and not even half-way literate in Chinese. Sometimes she'll ask about certain Chinese things about which, being half-way literate in Chinese, I might have the answers. But in the main the history of her ancestors native land is not nearly as magnetic as white folks doing stupid shit.

I think she's somewhat disappointed in me.
Not nearly enough stupid shit in my habits.
I'm virtually useless in that regard.


If I weren't so modest, I'd still be discreet.

Holding a towel in front of myself.

To hide the dangly bits.


It was a very long bath. I twiddled my toes and looked at the ceiling, hazy in the warm steam. Then I got out and dried off. At this very moment I am fully dressed, and my hair is combed.
Soon I shall head out for a snackipoo and a smoke.
Milk-tea, and something hot to eat.
First pipe of the day.
And the second.



I seriously hope she's feeling better tomorrow. So that I can have the apartment to myself.



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