Let’s turn to that in life which we appreciate only by their absence:
Toilet paper to name but one. And the flush.
I don’t classify myself as anal yet am fascinated by how people survived the olden days, and at their considerable inconvenience. Even Charles Dickens didn’t venture where horse manure mingled with chamber pots emptied through first floor windows. I don’t think they did second floors in those days. More is the pity. Because matter might have dispersed on the way down.
If ever there was the perfect age for the mini skirt they missed it. Instead of which ladies’ coy hems would sweep up – on leaving and returning from market – that which superfluous to our bodies. Unlike upper class Indians (and Madonna) all of whom I believe to be carried door to door, by minions, then, and Madonna now, without ever setting foot into that which unites us all: Shit.