The clue is in the spelling. Stalagmites (M for mountain) grow upwards and stalactites come…er…down. (beg pardon). “He’s definitely lost the plot this week,” I hear you cry, but no, bear with me.
The clue is in the spelling. Stalagmites (M for mountain) grow upwards and stalactites come…er…down. (beg pardon). “He’s definitely lost the plot this week,” I hear you cry, but no, bear with me.
This all began one very steamy, hot night about two months ago. The overnight temperature never dropped below about thirty degrees or so, damn hot anyway. It was on this night that the boss and I agreed the air conditioning unit in our bedroom was just not up to the job. This, I hasten to add, was not the consequence of any particularly athletic or adventurous activity, just the oppressive Turkish heat.
A telephone call or perhaps three calls the next morning and I was assured a suitably qualified engineering type person would be with me the following afternoon. Right on time, four days later, the aforementioned, bespectacled little man tapped tentatively on the front door.
A swift, nay, perfunctory, inspection of the current equipment brought forth what I now understand to be the equivalent to the English tradesman’s long intake of breath. A derisory ‘tut’ accompanied by a short wringing of the hands. The chap’s assessment was that we needed a bigger system. So far so good, at least we were agreed on something.
He measured the room, then consulted a little table of numbers which, I have to say looked an awful lot like the Aintree Handicappers Gazette, before announcing that our piffling nine hundred whatevers machine should immediately be replaced with one of no less an output than eighteen hundred whatevers. There was also a muttered reference I did not quite catch but, I like to think it was a suggestion to have the original engineer shot, or, at the very least, boiled in some very uncomfortable, viscous substance. Olive or crude, you choose.
So, one day later and the lads arrived in a very clean white van and went at it with a will. Naturally, bigger holes in the wall were a prerequisite of any progress. Not to mention changing the position of the outside bit of kit as the new larger unit would not fit in the original space. Despite the problems and being forced to stop and drink tea several times, they finished the job, including making good the damaged walls. Well, almost making good, a sort of smoothed over lump of plaster marks their passing, but never mind, the job was done!
The language barrier apart, the man in charge showed us the controls and demonstrated the wonderful ability of the machine to force cold air into the room in agreeable volumes. Volume, that’s another story, it is loud, quite loud, but oh, that satisfying chilly breeze.
Later that night, fresh from the shower and perhaps not entirely dry, I lay face down on the bed enjoying the cool zephyr produced by the throbbing unit above me. It was the night of the full moon and as the boss entered the bedroom she was faced with the not entirely edifying sight of yours truly’s, moonbeam kissed derrière in all its glory.
Derisory laughter to one side, she became a seeker after knowledge.
‘If icicles grow on your behind,’ she asked, ‘would they be stalagmites or stalactites?’
‘Cheeky person,’ I replied, although, granted that is not a verbatim quote of my response. ‘Owing to a complete absence of limestone they would be neither, simply icicles. And their relative upwardness or downwardness would be only a matter of perspective rather than geophysical engineering.’
You will remember, recently, my column was interrupted by the sudden impact of a flip or flop with my head, well this was flip-flop II. Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water …
Next week. Aliens and shopping by gender.
