NOISY BATHING MACHINE!

A bathing machine is a wheeled hutch that is pulled out into the surf so that the elderly lady within can get her toesies wet without disrobing or being immodest. Which I know thanks to Edward Gorey, who used one such in an illustration, with a little verse underneath: "From the bathing machine came a din, As of jollication within; It was heard far and wide, And the incoming tide, Had a definite flavour of gin."

There are distinct sounds of jollificatory excesses from the building across the backyards behind my apartment. Given that my lower legs hurt like the dickens, I find myself having Victorian thoughts about that. Heathens! Misbehaviour! Inebriated sinners!

A surplus of festive beandip might nix their giddiness.


Oh lord, now they're singing!
How utterly awful!


My throbbing lower legs kept me up half the night. After a full day they're quite a pain. This is something that might be caused by calcium blockers or beta blockers. Both of which are part of the programme. I will probably mention it to my doctor at some point, after doing more research. Next visit: a Tuesday in June. Two months hence.

Under no circumstances will I talk about this with a few of my coworkers, because I have no desire whatsoever to hear more about the miraculous effects of apple-cider vinegar, magic bee honey, ginger and cayenne infusions, or pizza made with spiritually pure ingredients and good karma. Or how someone's relative in the Lombard alps lived to one hundred and nine because he avoided sugar and sweetened his hot beverages with cauliflower.

Work today was noisy. Imagine drunken old men being themselves.


I get through the work day with Tylenol and Pur Erh Tea.
I am usually wired to the tits by mid-afternoon.
That probably is a contributing factor.



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