The Naked Vacuum Cleaner

"On my way," she texted. "Shopping done!"

 

"I'll be ready," I replied. But ready for what, and by when?

 

Susan drives from O'Leary to Charlottetown for a few days every week, often stopping on the way for provisions at Sobeys in Summerside. 'On my way' signified to me the start of a sixty minute drive from the west of the island. Normally I am prepared way in advance but that day I was running late owing to an early morning excursion to Sport Chek, on the hunt for Under Armour compression shorts (long leg, 32 waist). But I digress.

 

I consulted my watch and sketched out a mental plan by which I would be sitting comfortably in my armchair awaiting Susan's arrival with time to spare, bathed, shaved, bathroom cleaned, laundry folded and stowed, and my modest abode vacuumed and scrubbed to the point where eating off the floor would be a serious contention; my preferred way of life.

 

While drawing a deep, hot bath, I shaved my cheeks till they glowed smooth and pink. I had stripped off and was about to clamber into the tub when a thought occurred... vacuuming can be sweaty work. Perhaps I should do that before bathing; such a sensible move. I strode to the storage room, bare feet slapping on the vinyl floor, and grabbed my vacuum cleaner (Kenmore, cylinder type, 1400 watts) and carried it to my bedroom. I would start there, shimmy to the hall, the second bedroom and thence to the living room; my faultless plan.

 

Here I will concede this was not my first foray into housework 'au naturel'. Perhaps it's that certain thrill, that frisson of excitement, dancing from room to room, wondering if it's safe to scurry past those huge patio windows. You get in the zone; the back and forth, the hum of the motor. In fairness and in my defence, it's easy to forget you're in your birthday suit.

 

I twirled out of my bedroom, tugging my trusty vac behind, long lissom limbs reaching and stretching into all nooks and crannies. Soft brush attachment in place, I sucked at ledges, shelves, skirting boards and radiators, leaping over the cylinder as nimbly as a young gazelle, in a world of my own.

 

As I pirouetted out of the bathroom, hose and nozzle in hand, and headed for the living room, I saw a person... a real, live, fully dressed person, looking at me with eyebrows arched high and jaw slack. I froze... my heart actually skipped several beats. While my mind processed the scene and its ramifications, my silent witness sank slowly to her knees. Then she bowed forward until her forehead reached the floor. Only then did she emit a sound, a stuttering squawk, half laugh, half wail...

 

As alarm took its vice-like grip on me, I leapt sideways in a single bound to the relative safety of bedroom two. "You're early, Susan," I ventured, studiously avoiding any mention of my state.

 

Her initial reply was a clucking sound which gradually resolved into peals of laughter. I sneaked a peek around the door frame and saw Susan lying on my floor literally quivering with mirth.

 

"You made good time from Summerside," I said.

 

Between ragged guffaws came the words, "I messaged you from Charlottetown, ten minutes away! Now I see what you meant by I'll be ready!"

 

***

 

We met under adventurous circumstances several months ago and became inseparable from day one so it's strange that I felt so cringingly embarrassed, but I did. Perhaps it was the simple business of being caught red-handed and bare-cheeked, quite unexpectedly. Well, put yourself in a similar position and imagine!

 

To her credit (and proof, though hardly needed, that she accepts every part of my character and personality), Susan didn't ask me why. Nor did she bat an eyelid while I blabbered on about having calculated that I still had an hour before her arrival, and had been side-tracked at the very point of leaping into the bath. There are no satisfactory excuses. No one behaves like I did, or if they do they don't get caught!

Epigenetic Inheritance

Epigenetics, the newest science of all, lifts the lid on the old conundrum "nature or nurture". It turns out to be partly both. But we've always known that instinctively haven't we?

 

Several years ago scientists mapped the entire human genome, the rules for human physical and mental development. From that we learned that we inherit equal amounts of genes from each of our parents. No surprise then that we look and act a bit like mum and dad.

 

Epigenetics reveals that our destiny is not cast in stone. If we have the will we have the power to influence the extent to which inherited genes are triggered in our lifetime. Every thought, every mouthful, every step, changes gene expression and therefore our future. Genetics loads the gun but Epigenetics pulls the trigger.

 

1880 famine records in Sweden combined with birth and death records, showed that children and even grandchildren had longer life expectancy. The gene responsible for switching metabolism to 'survival mode' was activated, then bequeathed in genetic code to future generations.

 

Psychotherapists found that not only did Holocaust survivors come to them for counselling but almost all their children did too, even though those children were born long after the Holocaust. The gene for trauma had been activated and passed on.

 

Some organ transplant recipients report sudden changes in food preference, habits even hobbies. This adds weight to the notion that DNA molecules carry not only the building blocks of life itself... but how to live it too.

Louis Theroux

Louis Theroux is still recognisable as the impish interviewer whose TV documentary career began in 1998, challenging his subjects with, at times, impudent lines of questioning, but his latest films are serious investigative journalism. 'Not Guilty By Reason of Insanity' is a sympathetic exploration of the personalities of inmates in an Ohio prison for the criminally insane. While always giving their heinous crimes appropriately minimal coverage, Louis nevertheless treats his subjects with respect and a degree of compassion.

He made his name examining the strange underbelly of North America, hunting down the weird, the fanatical and the marginalised. UFO spotters, wife-swappers, born again Christians and other whimsical subject matter provided the perfect foil for his slightly tongue-in-cheek approach. The hour-long films work so well because Louis playfully teases his subjects with questions that the discerning viewer will realise are poking fun, yet the interviewees are so devoted to their cause that they are blind to even oblique criticism.

He has a propensity to put himself in positions well outside his comfort zone, willing his audience to join him in his bizarre experiences: entering a lion's cage with a man who keeps big cats for pets; joining in on the set of a porn film; entering the scary realm of modern Nazis. His soft English accent and erudite language skills endear him to the Americans, somehow letting him get away with statements, and the cringe-worthy repetition of boyish questions, for which he would be crucified in his native land. "Can I look at your penis?" "No." "Please?" "No!"All this makes for fascinating viewing, especially to an Englishman.

His style is deceptively smooth. He is easy-going and charming and that allows him to get so close that he can deliver pointed questions. He still tackles fringe subjects but these days they are much more serious. Gone is the title 'Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends' and the almost goofy fun-poking. The frightening arenas of drug addiction, mental health and violent prisons demand challenging questions and the mature Louis steps right up to the mark and asks them.

From the Roof of the World

Lace your fingers with mine, fall in step with me.
Love me, baby, in the way only you can.
Cradle my heart with your tender slender fingers.
Sing a soft lullaby as I drift away in your arms.

Old grey yesterdays, silent, dark and troubled
are piles of stone, layered in history's dust.
A summer breeze lifts, wafts a new virgin sheet
that lands upon our laps, awaits our words of love.

You and I are poised at the roof of the world.
Let's launch headlong into the majestic sky,
feel the wind beneath our wings and soar eagle-high,
giddy and expectant in thin translucent air.

Circle spirals slowly, lean in lazy loops;
fields a patchwork quilt, our safety net below.
By degrees we'll glide on our familiar path,
our rhythm sweet, our heading sure and tireless.

And when we land on deep, soft grass we'll roll and
laugh and sigh. Our lives in endless summer sun
stretching to the red hills of this enchanted Isle.
Be mine sweet child in time, be mine, forever mine.

Bodies... and a dose of Alan Partridge

 

Mini-series such as Criminal Justice, Afterlife and Sea of Souls are quintessentially British. The dialogues involve idiom, regional dialects and slang, yet Susan, western PEI born and bred, has taken them in her stride. I've seen them all before and rate them highly. Occasionally I have paused to explain a peculiar expression, or a specific cultural reference but by and large these dramas, some gritty, some deep, speak to a wide audience. I've gambled and won!

The medical drama Bodies deals with cover-ups and whistle blowers in an Obstetrics and Gynecology Ward. Acting is top notch, the situations credible and the reality unflinching. Graphic scenes abound: sexual intimacy, childbirth and surgery feature in every episode. There is maternity, death, catastrophic error, eroticism and from the mouth of surgeon Tony Whitman (Keith Allen), sledgehammer wit and brutal sarcasm. Like all good TV it quits while it's ahead and leaves you wanting more.

In stark contrast and by way of an antidote I threw in Alan Partridge, Season 2 (which is where the wretched and cringe-worthy character really gets into his stride). The humour is biting, even ugly at times but well within the bounds of decency and always peppered with irony. I felt it would appeal to its new Canadian audience, and it did. I know the script by heart and we laughed like drains!

By way of a periodic cleanse of the palate we take in episodes of BBC property show Escape to the Country, a beautifully gentle series where city dwellers hope to adopt rural life. Needless to say we tear the house hunters and their foibles to shreds. It's a great way for a Canadian to see the beauty of rural UK from her armchair, pick out cultural differences in furnishing and decor, not to mention gasp at the lack of storage space, no basements, miniature fridges, and washing machines in the kitchen. Such fun, and a great way to enjoy snowbound storm days!

our weekend suppers

A certain little lady drives for ninety minutes. This is just some of what she brings with her. To say we eat a supper of bread and cheese does no justice at all to this sumptuous feast: numerous exotic, flavoured cheeses; rosemary bread; dipping oils loaded with herbs and spices; crackers; bruschetta; antipasto tomato salad; a giant cheese cake; and milk chocolate.

As if all that were not enough, she bakes buttermilk biscuits (scones in the UK) which sit in bags in my freezer.

Early on dark and windy mornings she rises at 5am and trudges across my icy parking lot amid swirling snow flurries to face a ninety minute drive to work.

It's an incredible life.

Poldark

1975 was a year of exciting innovative TV. So does it still feel that way forty years later? I pulled out my box set of Poldark, a darkly romantic saga charting the ups and downs of 18th century Cornish gentry. Back in the day it was compulsive viewing but my anticipated nostalgia trip fell flat. Frankly, although the story is cute, the production values are ludicrously dated. It has the feel of a cheap theatre production, all stationary camera views and big projected voices! The lighting is absurd; since when did candlelight illuminate the tops of heads, still less follow people around! How did I not notice in 1975. Maybe we settled for less more easily. We certainly expected dramatic music and crashing waves in our opening credits!

The best modern programming has set the bar so high that older material doesn't compare at all well; the acting is pedestrian and somewhat lame. Sadly abandoning the dated period drama Poldark, I sought solace in its 1975 companion, the John Cleese penned Fawlty Towers and had much better luck. Not only is the comedy timeless, and a landmark example of British humour, loaded with sarcasm and irony, but the acting is plausible and realistic. While never crude, the humour is direct, and downright startling at times; something to savour and relish in these pathetic days of political correctness. I'd go further, much of my own (mostly hidden from view) comic persona is drawn from the biting sarcasm and eccentric reactions of "Basil Fawlty"!

Between these two widely divergent stalwarts of 70's TV, there is a curious connection: Robin Ellis appeared in both. Obviously he is forever known as the swashbuckling, handsome, lover and tin miner Ross Poldark, but perhaps few remember that he made a guest appearance in the first episode of Fawlty Towers, as the undercover Cockney cop on the trail of con-artist Lord Melbury.

Forty years has a habit of changing things. Robin Ellis, now 72, lives in France and writes cookery books; the gorgeous Angharad Rees (his screen wife Demelza Poldark) sadly died recently at 63. Sybil Fawlty (the marvellous Prunella Scales, aged 82), veteran nagger, and foil for Basil's acerbic humour, has Alzheimer's. John Cleese divorced his first wife and co-writer, American Connie Booth, and is currently entertaining wife number four.